


The Catalyst

by teganandsarasince2004



Category: Tegan and Sara (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 09:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teganandsarasince2004/pseuds/teganandsarasince2004
Summary: Tegan of Wirhorst, a trained assassin, crosses paths with an elf who changes her life. As well as the destiny of the entire kingdom of Norraldi. While a young woman from across the ocean finds herself a witness to events that will forever shape human history. A fantasy adventure set in my own world with several years of work into the story itself. Tegan/Sara, Kaki King/Emy Storey.





	1. Chapter 1

Year 4312, Loirena 12th

Present Day

Like a light at the end of a tunnel, a dying campfire flickers off in the distance through the trees. Casting long, tendril shadows about me, dancing within the faint beams of moonlight piercing through the canopy despite how thick the trees are. The soft hum of insects repeat their songs over and over in a beautiful nighttime orchestra. I listen past this for the important sounds: my ears are tuned for any sign of life at the camp ahead of me. Most wouldn't recognize the sounds drifting upon the perfumed breeze as an important sound–-someone snoring as they sleep in a deep slumber, an opportunity that all my instincts tell me to not waste in the least, not tonight anyway.

Licking my lips, I remove my long, slim dagger from its position within a snug sheath upon my belt. I forego my inward curving sword for something a bit easier to quietly kill someone if need be. I make myself as low as the underbrush and foliage as possible, yet still comfortably able to retreat if need be. My eyes watch the camp for anything noteworthy, yet after a moment, I release the tension in my muscles and take slow, calculated movements forward–-preferring to be slow and unnoticed rather than fast and caught. Despite being more at home in an urban environment, I know it is unusual to see a camp so blatant in the open this deep into the Wyreach.

In all provinces, it is common knowledge that a good portion of the woods contains hideouts for highwaymen, brigands, and other unsavory sorts. Even the elven cities that lie a lot further in have issues with them. Still, no one has hard evidence of where these ne'er-do-wells reside until a trader, a caravan, or a small patrol ends up dead or missing along the border. So, they are allowed to just exist, but I am sure at some point someone will chase them out when it becomes convenient.

Pulling the hood of my old, road-worn leather cloak over my head, happy to hide my features within the shadow it casts, my mind turns to Loira, my patron goddess–-she who oversees murder and revenge - she who I have dedicated myself to. However, tonight I do not plan to enact anything of the sort unless my hand is forced: hoping beyond hope that I can just engage in a bit of thievery and burglary for nostalgia's sake and a few extra sovereigns. I don't always wish to have blood on my hands at the end of the day.

It isn't too long before I make my way to the outskirts of the camp, and my fortune holds as I spot the occupant still sleeping inside a tent made of furs and animal skins. A makeshift linen door flaps in the wind of the night causing it to slap around a bit, becoming the only sound to compete against the snoring and bugs. With no inner thoughts of hesitation, I creep upon the soft, cleared earth into the camp itself. With my well-trained eyes, I take stock of what might be worth pilfering and where the good stuff might be hiding. A longbow leans against an elm tree with a wide box-shaped quiver and a small hatchet still decorated with small specks of old, dried blood on its wooden haft. Bear traps set on the ground are easy to evade with no need or desire to disarm them as the sound would act as an alarm to wake up the occupant in no time. The exact opposite of what I have in mind at this moment.

Smoldering coals within the slowly dying fire pop as the last resin and volatile materials inside the wood is driven out. Soft, gentle snoring turns my attention back to the person within the makeshift abode. While the silvery-white moonlight streams down to truly show off the features of a quite beautiful elven woman. I wonder why she is here alone: her kind rarely travels by themselves, even in cities.

Shrugging a bit, I move a strand of dark brown hair out from in front of my eyes, and I begin my search for anything of value. I find just the essentials of camping and surviving with the most valuable being the rather high-quality food rations, which I have no interest in filching. Some clothes bundled up around what appears to be items of sentimental but not monetary worth. Several simple but masterfully crafted wooden animal statuettes that I shove into my satchel as Elven woodwork can fetch a hefty price for its rarity and beauty.

Exasperated and frustrated I almost give up hope until I trip on what seems to be a tree stump that has been hollowed-out by artificial means. The stump is old, discolored by age and rot, easily missed at this late of an hour, and the dark shade that keeps it from receiving any moonlight makes the inside an easy and logical place to hide important items. Several bugs skitter out of the hole as I tentatively stick my hand within and grab a leather bag that I feel the instant I come across it. Pulling it out reveals an almost ancient-looking leather sack stitched with thick pieces of glossy lacquered animal skin keeping the contents secure inside. Stretch marks mar the sack near the stitching showing the many years of it carrying more than its own fair share of the burden.

Using my blade, I cut the complicated knot keeping the sack closed and pull the flap open, and I begin to rummage through its contents. Sighing to myself as it is mostly a set of emergency spare clothes; some dry food rations; as well as a few odd trinkets that, if nothing else, will at least fetch me but a few sovereigns to make this diversion of mine worth it.

Grabbing a rough linen tunic from within the sack, I lay it open upon the leaf-covered ground for my minor loot stash. Placing the trinkets–-a few Elven carved wooden medallions, some esoteric runes, and the like; a few of the more valuable tools that can fetch a sovereign or two; and, a bit of random odd bits I have acquired within the middle of the shirt. As I reach the bottom of the bag, I feel a soft, supple material, quite a bit like how velvet feels with something hard and spherical inside. Pulling out the faded purple pouch, I find an emblem with a dragon sewn into the front, and then, without spending another thought upon it, drop it on top of the pile. Gathering the edges of the tunic I tie it secure then stuff it into the satchel upon my belt causing it to bulge.

Despite a fleeting thought of looking through the occupant's pockets over for anything valuable, I just don't think the meager earnings would be worth the risk of being caught. So just as slow and methodical as I was when I came into the camp, I now sneak out of it. Even when I am far out of earshot from the campsite, it takes me well over half an hour to feel comfortable enough to stand up and make my way through the thicket at a brisk pace.

Beyond the trees, lie the grasslands of Yoln, with its famous rolling hills and picturesque plains. Also known for is its ample variety of honey and thus mead, and for the Cathedral of Tian in Klieva–-the Capital of Norraldi The capital is one of the most secure and prosperous provinces, or so the local nobles and High King boast in their propaganda through paid off Bards and posters plastered on temples' doors. In this province, even the simplest of crimes are punished with a firm hand in a bid to try and deter people like me. With this in mind, I have decided it is much to my own advantage to play the part of some adventurer who plunges down deep into one of the many ruins of the famed and lost elven kingdom of Elvarton that dot the land between villages, farms, and the larger settlements. Especially in this area which once housed the center of the elven world.

A retinue of the local Baron's men rides by on their horses; their armor jingling with each slow, ponderous trot as their eyes scan around them. Looking for anything out of the ordinary and not a detail misses their gaze, I must be wary. I blend into the shadows within the forest on the boundary of the grasslands, hoping they don't see me. My hood keeps my features from view and hopefully obscures a bit of my silhouette while I keep my body as still as I can, through all the training I have endured, nary a muscle betrays me. They continue their ride down the dirt road and take the fork away from the nearby village. It isn't long before they are out of sight, and I can finally relax. Despite how much of a danger they pose to me, the guardsmen do tend to keep the roads clear around here from the more ruthless highwaymen - one of the reasons I've been in Yoln for as long as I have been as of late.

Pulling my hood down after clearing the forest, I run a hand through my hair with a bit of a fortifying breath. Confident, as I have never had an issue working the rubes here, in believing that I am a fortune hunter, an adventurer looking for fame, sovereigns, and a warm body with a matching bed. Not that there is anyone else truly on this road at this hour of the night. Walking towards the fork where the patrol has long since passed, I am at my most comfortable. A signpost stands before me with three arrow signs–-two of them point at the paths in front of me and the other points to the path towards the way behind me.

"Roveriksted or Norinferd," I repeat to myself.

With a shrug, my desire to have a room for the night as well as just wanting to get away from the forest, has me take the left path toward the closer hamlet of Roveriksted. The distinctive barrel-shaped beehives are surrounded by drones that even from this distance can be seen by the eye in a non-moving swarm. A small orchard lies off behind the apiaries, growing a mixture of apples, cherries, and among the trees are a few grape vines this area is known for mixing into their mead. The large meadery is off the village, a bit separated by a well-used dirt path with wheel ruts. Near a copse of trees behind the large building is a barn that is even bigger, and no doubt filled with casks and barrels full of the semi-sweet, delicious concoctions that accompany the merriment in the inn within the village as well as abroad. Which is why it isn't a surprise that the road from the meadery and barn splits off to the back of the inn, where despite the late hour, candles are lit and hanging within sconces by the front door. Leaving no doubt that fire is roaring inside, and music can be heard from within on the cooling, late summer wind.

My feet quicken their pace, as I get closer to the village being quite grateful that the walk isn't that terribly far. On either side of the road are farming pastures that stretch out as far as the eye can see. Some people are still in the field with makeshift torches as they toil for that extra crop for themselves and their families to have something more than the small handouts the Baron or High King's tributes leave behind. A sad existence in some way, but they are relatively safe thanks to the toll and taxes they pay. The random inebriated townsfolk who pass me by on the way to their homesteads pay no attention to my presence. Just another wanderlust soul searching for ancient ruins; bounty hunting the bandits and highwaymen within Wyreach; or, perhaps the old wizard tower that is barely visible upon the horizon has attracted me to this village. Either way, I don't stand out and that is exactly what makes me so comfortable in this area of Yoln.

The aroma of baked goods and pastries come to my nose as the bakers and their assistants have already been up to work long and hard before the sun gets even close to rising. Adding to this is the stewed meats, and vegetables wafting from the chimney of the inn. The irresistible odor has my stomach growling in protest for its empty state.

The crickets chirping in the distance are interrupted by a man clad in an immaculate leather armor breastplate with iron bands reinforcing the cured material. A red rose crossed with an axe is emblazoned upon the tabard that comes down to his knees. The same symbol is painted on the shield, and it brands him as one of the Baron's men, a man not to be trifled with.

"Stop!" He calls out.

I've already stepped past the man, so I roll my eyes with a sigh, turning around to face him.

"There an issue, my lord?" I inquire.

"No, just haven't seen you around here before," He looks me over with a trained eye. The man is by no means old, but it is evident he has passed his prime–-if only just, with his graying hair.

"We get adventurers, bounty hunters, traders, sellswords, and many of the traveling type. I like to keep a personal log of who comes in and out. So, what's your name and occupation?"

"Eira, an adventurer from Wirhorst."

"Have the look of it," He interrupts.

"Made an incursion into Wyreach. I wanted to see if I could find some bandits to slay for their ears. Need to rest up for a little bit, though. Get some supplies. Maybe hire a sword arm, if one can be found here, and find some treasure. Loot or ears to sell, just need sovereigns. Any way I can get them within the bounds of the High King's laws."

"Figured as much. All the shops are closed but the inn has beds for rent. Good supplies here from traders coming from Klieva. No vagrancy. You pay for a room or you end up sleeping in the dungeon. Got it?"

Nodding, "yes, my lord."

"Be off with you then," He waves dismissively at me.

With a scoff, I continue towards the inn where a wooden sign hangs above the door with a large ogre burnt into the wood. A small gust of wind causes the sign to swing back and forth and the old metal hinges to creak ever so slightly. The stone building is sturdy, well-built, and probably the strongest structure in the town–-outside of the meadery. There is a simple porch with several strong chairs and mead-stained tables covering it. The heavy wooden door scrapes against the floor as I push it open, announcing me to everyone within the inn. Not that the patrons would care that another traveler has joined their revelry.

I am greeted by a rather lively crowd of what appears to be mostly locals drinking and singing songs I can only recall hearing from my childhood, and a few that no child should ever have to hear. Women in modest clothing run back and forth between the tables and the bar; removing mugs and replacing steins filled with the different meads the area produces. The long wooden bar dominates the far side of the building with a wooden spiral staircase positioned to the left of it. Across from the bar is a large stone fireplace, keeping the drafty place tolerably warm and filling the air with the scent of spit-roasted meat and vegetables slathered with strong herbs. An iron cauldron takes up half of the soot-covered inside with a bubbling stew within its cavernous depths.

Taking an unoccupied table close to the fireplace, away from the main crowd, I reach into my coin pouch and pull out five silver sovereigns. Placing them down on the table I look up at the rather young farm girl standing before me. She is dressed in a cotton dress with a couple of off-colored patches sewn in. A smile is on her face as she scoops the coins into her hand.

"Orange Blossom mead, if you got it. Preferably from Wirhorst. A cup of the stew and a piece of hard bread. A bed for the night as well," I am surprised by how tired my voice sounds but I do not show it through my actions or movements.

"Right away," Is her response after scooping up the coins. "All of our rooms are vacant tonight. So, pick one, and enjoy."

"Thank you," I reply.

No one pays me any attention here. Still, it is nice to be unnoticed even if that is how I have spent most of my life. At least I don't have to worry here for my safety.

The drink and food go down quick and I find my way up the stairs to the closest room on the right. I latch it tight just out of a paranoid habit, which I find no issue with as it has helped me stay alive. Sitting upon the hay-filled mattress I let out a sigh and all the tension in my body disappears, in a rare moment. The slight heady feeling from the mead mixes with the rush I get from a successful theft. Not an unpleasant feeling in the slightest.

I remove my gear to just leave myself in my tunic and leather trousers. Leaning back onto the bed with my loot in its neat package upon my stomach, giddy to see my spoils up close and personal. Untying the pack being careful not to spill it; I begin to divide everything into two piles mostly between what can fetch me a good price and what I will take at any offer. Eventually, I get to the velvet wrapped sphere, unwrapping it to spot, a brilliant azure star sapphire, one of the biggest gems I have ever seen in my life. Bringing it up to the small candlelight makes out a glittering star within in almost perfect clarity. A mesmerizing quality that has my eyes fixated upon it for a moment longer than I expected.

"You are going to make me a tidy sum," I say kissing the stone. "There's a perfect place in Wirhorst that I am going to take you to. Then I can store away most of it as planned." Tucking it away back into the sack before stuffing it under my bed.

Sleep used to come to me easy regardless of my actions, even when I was sent on a mission for the Sisters or as the Right Hand of Loira. Usually to eliminate someone or multiple people, sometimes in horrible ways, but I took solace that they were bad, awful, hideously-intentioned people. Then I would lie upon my mattress within the Sanctuary to fall asleep without a care. Now I lie up at night, well into the late hours to the point that the inn goes quiet for the short amount of time it is closed. The silent snoring, or not-so-silent squeaking of a bed a few rooms down, ends up the background music of my night, showing that the rooms didn't end up being vacant after all. Though, it is no matter to me.

Eventually, sleep overcomes me into a restless dream. A dream I have suffered many times yet have no clue what any of it means. An overwhelming sense of dread is always the first thing I can recall. The sound of a great battle surrounding me on all sides, muffled by distance as I am in some type of old storage room. Fighting for my life amidst a group of the High King's guards. A young girl dressed in a simple white dress with her hair in pigtails with green ribbons in each one. Her features oddly like me–-the heart-shaped face, slightly upturned nose–-her mouth opened in a silent scream. Loira kneeling beside me, the face of an elf that I do not recognize beside hers. Whilst it ends like all the others, a brief glimpse of an ethereal figure on top of a high mountain within the clouds.

Then my eyes open to the sparse room I fell asleep in. Birds singing their morning songs through the slightly cracked window and welcome me to a new day, yet the fringes of the dream linger in my mind, at the very edge of my memory causing a dull pain to rise within my forehead. Tired of putting thought into this odd dream I sit up before getting fully out of bed.

I'm out of the inn with a piece of hard bread and a handful of nuts I acquired from the larder. The village is already fully awake and operating despite the early hour, with women carrying loads of clothes, food, mead, or whatever the household needs, little ones at their heels and older children playing in the square. A gentle river of water trickles down into the street from a woman doing her laundry beside a small hut near a smithy, belching out smoke from its chimney.

Walking up towards the same crossroads I was at last night, I take the Norinferd path: hoping to get there by high noon and to Klieva just after dusk. The rolling farmland flattens out into a large treeless expanse of knee-high grass as Wyreach disappears in the distance. Traffic picks up as the sun gets higher in the sky, and at the halfway point of my trip, the rich village appears over a cresting hill. My stomach rumbles, and I lick my lips out of thirst, hoping that the bustling trading post has something cheap to drink and eat, that isn't water and hard tack rations.

Merchants and traders of all types coming from and going to Klieva use this long highway since it connects the capital with the rich farmland of Nostia, its capital Nolas, and the mineral and fur-rich Skjeld to the northeast, which then connects Iona to the northwest. Lots of money flows through this village and the manors surrounding the town agree with my assessment. Small cherry, apple, and pear orchards grow in little, enclosed gardens behind two and three-story houses made of the finest stone and wood. Each one decorated with ornate windows–-some even having stained-glass-–and intricate carvings. Grotesques and gargoyles cover the roofs of a few adding a northern appeal to them.

The town square and its hub of stores, cafes, taverns, and everything a person will need can be seen, even from this distance. Off to the side lies an open-air market with traders haggling over bulk goods. It is easy to spot beginning traders compared to the rich veterans; not to mention the wealthy, looking for a great deal, surrounded by their bodyguards. Exotic animal pelts and ore line stalls across from a merchant with casks of fine Nolasian wine and Wyreach Wildflower Mead that is legendary across the kingdom. Even a dark-skinned Sarosian from the Great Sand Sea with rare spices, magical trinkets, arcane and esoteric tomes, and scrolls has him peddling the rare and exotic. Two muscular men stand beside him with great curved swords tucked within their sashes.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that someone has been following me all day. The traveler that's just out of eyesight range has been behind me all day, but I did my best to not show I had any idea that I knew I was being followed. Crowds are easy to disappear within and find a place to lay low from all but the most tenacious of pursuers. Catching glimpses out of the corner of my eye as I surveyed the area around me, stopping when I could to take a breath and a drink from my water skin.

"You could just be paranoid," I say to myself, doubting my own instincts.

The crowd of people not paying attention makes me feel a bit more comfortable and my eyes scan around me for a moment, but I just sigh as several marks come to my eye, but I just have more to concern my mind with than this. Buying a meat dumpling from a merchant nearby has my mouth watering at the prospect of devouring it. I acquire a wineskin from an unsuspecting middle-aged man arguing with some exhausted looking baker's apprentice about a loaf of bread, satisfying my thieving instinct. Finding a nice cool barn near a warehouse with my only company being cattle waiting to be sold, bought, milked, or slaughtered. Flies and other insects buzz around me who want a taste of my meal. Periodically landing upon my arms before I wave them away with disdain.

Even in here the noise from outside is still quite loud and audible: merchants hawking their wares looking for a quick coin, nobles mingling with one another in the open-air cafes and well-to-do spots just a stone's throw away from this dirty, stinky barn. Close enough to hear their inane chatter, yet not able to make out a word of it.

I find myself drifting into a nap as the hot sun above keeps the interior barely tolerable, but it is still enjoyable. Lying upon the itchy hay is both nostalgic and annoying, hearkening to days past. This whole time I've been gone from The Sanctuary and from being the Right Hand–-though Loira can find me whenever she wishes until I die. I was instructed to travel the lands to gain experience - years that I have no regret about serving on my own. I've been both on my guard and completely off of it at the same time. Laying here in the relative open where any one of my numerous enemies, those who I have no doubt made, wanting my death can come and easily find me. My senses are keen–-years of this life and hard training have honed them so. Now, in the prime of my life, I have no fear of what may come upon me, or for me. I've visited the Sanctuary several times and have taken the odd job, but mostly the Listener will have a Sister find me when something important needs to get done. So here, I now rest.

Isn't hubris when most begin their downfall? The thought is a bit disconcerting, and my right-hand stays down to the hilt of the curved sword at my side. Then I hear a very distinctive voice, a voice you hardly ever hear, at least with such outward confidence, in this area that is. The lilting almost musical quality of an elf's voice yet bolder than usual. One you hear from those who are fabled to live in Wyreach; one barely heard in the slums and ghettos of the cities where elves subsist and work underpaid jobs just to buy stale bread and dirty ale.

"Thank you, messire," A title you only hear from the far southeast of the kingdom, near Nolas and that area. "Here is what I promised." Her voice is low, and I am sure she thinks I cannot hear, but I am no common vagabond.

A sudden, short rap upon the large doors opens my eyes and it is time to switch modes. I look for an exit, but unless I can jump twelve feet into the air, I can't make it to the windows. The only other door is missing a handle and the crimson-brown rust on the hinges are a sign of its disuse, which would take far too long to pry open if I ever could.

"I do not wish to fight," The elf calls out as she pushes the door open slowly. I don't wish to provoke her nor the guards into combat. So, despite my hand upon the hilt, I don't immediately draw my blade when she comes into view.

The sun illuminates her tall, lithe figure clad in a chain mail shirt that is obviously made of the silvery-green faenor metal that the elves were known for in ancient stories. Draped over her torso and covered by a short tabard that ends at her hips, lined in a black ornate design that comes off like a twining vine, curling around one another, it is quite striking to behold. Animal hide boots with metal shin-guards and metal toecaps, gauntlets cover her hands and a single spike extends from the top of each one. An aventail made of faenor covers her neck, and it is obvious she is a woman of action. I would find it extremely hard to hurt her let alone kill the woman because of how well armored she is, and I'd bet she can move gracefully within it. A well-used but excellently cared for sword is strapped across her back with a leather harness keeping it in place. Too large and long for anyone to feasibly use with just one hand, and I find it a bit astounding that a woman of her size could even brandish such an implement as it appears to weigh more than she does.

"Well if you didn't want a fight. What do you want?" I scramble to my feet. Running a hand through my hair to not appear as unprepared as I am, perhaps it is even a bit of a comfort to myself,

She takes a step forward, and I instinctively pull out my inward curving sword, just as I do so the familiar tinge of excitement flows within me, the distinctive feeling the weapon causes inside me. The trapped soul within waiting for bloodshed. Stopping she holds up both hands and smiles at me. At this distance, I can see her fine, elven features, and I admit to myself that I have always preferred their looks to humans. A sharp jawline that could almost cut glass if one were to try; thin lips with beads of sweat on the upper ridge, I try not to miss a detail in my assessment of this enemy. Her nose is small and pert with a deep scar crossing over it diagonally continuing onto the cheek towards her jawline. Her almond-shaped green eyes with hints of hazel within, framed by dark brown hair hanging over her eyes slightly and ends just before the base of her neck.

"You took something of mine-"

"I take something from a lot of people. Got to be more specific, elf," I reply.

"Don't call me that," Her lilting tone deepens, leaving the elf's intentions clear. "A gem of some considerable worth. There is a star inside it with unusual clarity."

"Maybe."

"Don't play coy with me. I know you have it."

"What is it to you?" I ask shifting into a defensive posture. Just waiting for her to make a move, yet she stays with her hands up.

"Does it matter? Give it back to me now or I will just take it from you. I have been wronged in this matter. It is my right to do what I must to get it," She drops her arms down. "Don't make me ask again. Give it back to me."

Never one to be reasonable or rational in such situations - I lie, "Fine, fine. I hid it in my boot. Just let me get it."

"It is in your boot?" The elf inquires.

"So? Don't want it now?"

The woman snorts and shoots me a look.

Shrugging, I kneel to pretend to get something out of my boot. Instead, I grab a handful of dirt and hay. Tossing it into her eyes, I dash past her towards the exit, making for the presumed safety of the outside. Though my cloak proves to be my downfall as I feel a strong yank upon it; causing me to fall on my back with a thud and driving the air out of my lungs just as I was about to cross the threshold. In a smooth, well-practiced movement she pulls her sword free, turns around and tries to cleave me in half with it. I quickly roll out of the way of what would have been my untimely death.

"I'm not your common thief, elf," I spit out. "Perhaps you should leave whilst ahead?"

She snarls, "I know who you are, girl."

A hard knee to my stomach is followed by a quick slash of her blade at my chest. Dodging backward gives me just enough space to avoid it, but I don't avoid the shoulder check she hits me with. Falling onto my ass with a thud, my pride is hurt more than anything else.

"Hey! You two!" A guardsman shouts.

"Stop in the name of the Baron and the High King!" Someone else shouts in a deeper voice.

"Dammit!" the elf curses. "I can't let them catch either one of us." She offers me her hand.

"Really? You just wanted me dead and I should trust you?" I scoff.

"You don't need to trust me at all, but you can't be caught by them. Come on, we must go."

Grunting I take a hold of her hand and make my way to my feet. "Well, elf-"

"Saraphyna."

"I am Tegan."

"I know."

"Well, Sara, got a plan?" I ask.

"To not get caught," She walks up to the side of the door.

I stand and watch her as a low, faint humming rises to my ears. The guards enter the immediate area, and an unearthly song overwhelms the vicinity. In a blur, I watch the elf cut the head off the closest man to her, and while doing so her sword cleaves the other guard through his chest. Their dead bodies slump to the ground with almost simultaneous thuds.

"You're impressive," I say.

"Come on, the crowds will thin."

"Obviously," I follow behind the woman not knowing who the hell this elf is. A very interesting character, of course, but just as equal–-if not more so, mysterious, and dangerous.

As quick as a hard wind, she sprints into the busy square heading off in the direction of the Wyreach, past the horizons. My logical, reasonable side tells me to run the other way, to just make it on my own, as I have had to do for my entire life. However, my feet propel me behind her. Keeping up with the woman's pace stride for stride, step for step. My years of training seemingly matched by Sara's obvious years, if not decades or centuries of training

The local patrols would have been informed by the time the sun begins to head down toward the horizon, but we find ourselves hidden inside an old ruin partially buried underground. This place hasn't seen actual people in a long time as the only footprints belong to vermin and the occasional goblin. With most of the tracks coming in from the small opening the two of us squeezed through.

"They avoid the ruins," I say after a moment. "Superstitious lot around here."

"Good," A moment passes as her word hangs in the air. "Now give me my gem."

I didn't really have a choice in the matter. As it was clear she was a superior fighter then I was, at least on this occasion, though I doubt I could ever beat her in a fair fight. With a sigh, I reach into my satchel to pull out the velvet-wrapped stone, offering it outstretched to the determined woman who snatches it out of my hand. I look towards the exit down the hall where fading sunlight beams through illuminating the cracked, moss and ivy-covered stones. Cobwebs and dust seem to coat every surface. Broken pottery litters the floor alongside old animal bones and blades, as the wood has rotted away from the ancient weapons.

"Well," I look back at the elf, saying, "I guess I should be going. Give the guards another trail to follow. Better chances for both of us to make it. My deepest apologies again," Reaching into my satchel I grab the few objects I took from her before offering them back. "You caught me fair and square. Where do we go from here?"

"You are coming with me," She states rather matter-of-fact.

Snorting, I reply, "Aren't you happy? You got everything I took and could humble and humiliate me. Not enough?"

"Events have been set in motion."

"Yeah, sure, usually there are some types of machinations going on."

She looks at me a moment and says, "This involves things greater than ourselves."

"I've dealt with things greater than myself for most of my life: that's nothing new to me. So, if you excuse me, miss. It's been a pleasure," I turn to leave, scoffing to myself again.

A dull pain lands on the back of my head, and as I fall to the ground my world goes to black.


	2. Chapter 2

Year 4302, Angar 18th

Ten Years Before Present

North of the lands of Wirhorst on the Frozen Coast lies a city of strong, hardy people - the type that has lived off the ocean's bounty for as long as anyone has lived here. Closest to the direct descendants of the humans who first populated these lands. Everything from fuel to food, the Snow Vale Woods provides and whatever else the people need that the sea cannot give. It is a good, fruitful place during the summer, as nobles from all over the lands migrate to their estates here, or in the province of Skjeld to the direct east. To avoid the heat of the Hinterlands, one must travel here, to the far north, and so many tend to do so, providing plentiful opportunities for those with the skills, fortitude, and disposition to make a decent living in the short, intense summer months.

As sailors go about their business in the harbor alongside traders, merchants, and nobles slumming it to get better prices, one can find that hands easily slip in and out of pockets or cut the strings of a purse with great ease. With throngs of people, warehouses to hide between, and people too busy to pay attention to everything, it makes for a profitable situation for everyone involved, except for the mark, but I love it and thrive in this ordered chaos.

My mark today is a man dressed in fine fur robes as the summer is ending and heavier garb is now being worn. A cooling wind has begun to blow off the ocean today, causing people to bundle up and consider heading back south sooner rather than later. I find myself leaning against the cold stone wall of a warehouse near one of the inner piers. Since moving up here from the Port of Wirhorst, I have had a string of good luck. Stepping into the crowds of people, I walk through them making my way towards my target without alerting him to my presence. He's clearly the type of man that makes up for what he lacks in brains and awareness with coin. Even a blind man could rob this person of everything he is wearing, and he wouldn't notice except for the chill.

Like a draft passing through a grassy field uninterrupted, I cut the hemp strings of the man's purse - it falls in my open hand all in one quick, smooth movement. I have quite a bit of experience with this, as I learned the trade in Wirhorst. But this summer I have been here in Iona, and this is where I have perfected my art. Once I pass by several people, I disappear, stuffing the pouch into a small sack hanging off my belt and hiding under my fur-lined cloak. Not missing a step, I turn to climb up a set of stairs towards the main square of town.

Another strong gust of chilling wind comes off the Maelstrom Bay, making me yearn for a strong dark ale, hearty stew, and a roaring fire. I avoid the more upscale taverns and pubs that litter the main square and cater to the tourists: these are preparing to close for the winter as most of the business dries up and heads back south to the more cosmopolitan areas of the kingdom. I head past the main square towards the industrial area of town–-the smiths, tannery, curing houses, woodworkers, and craftsmen of all stripes, where the pubs and taverns are frequented by locals and seedy characters. Rowdy places full of music, laughter, cards, dice, dealings in the back rooms, and guards to keep troublemakers out - fun places to just be.

The Lusty Octopus is the rather ridiculous name of my tavern of choice, owned by an older elven woman named Aoife, who is as happy and jolly as anyone I have ever known. But one must not be mistaken, the lithe women, with her graying hair, wears a heavy cutlass on her hip, always. She is standing behind a wide ale-stained bar with several fishermen gathering around the far side away from the door. A roaring fire pit sits in the middle of the rather large room, with a cast iron cauldron resting above it. Aoife's famous stew simmers where she occasionally moves over to stir it.

Several old, knobby tables surround the fire, and a fair amount of people sit in the chairs around them. A bard sits near the fire with a mandolin in her hands, an intoxicated smile on her face as her fingers run up and down the frets. A rather plain-looking rapier with a large guard is leaning against the chair she sits in. I don't get a good look at the woman, as my focus is on the bar itself, walking by her without a second thought.

"If it isn't my favorite young woman," Aoife says while walking up to me with that joyful smile on her face. We exchange a quick hug, saying, "Did you happen upon some sovereigns today?"

"I sure did," I reply with a smile.

"Well, the stew is rabbit and venison as I didn't have enough of either for a full pot. We tapped our last keg of the brown ale made with honey from Yoln. Also, got your favorite room available, interested?"

Grinning, I reach into my cloak to remove the coin purse and put down several copper sovereigns as well as two silver sovereigns.

"That's for the tip last night," I say.

"We have to keep a lookout for each other, eh?" Aoife says while she takes the two silvers and slips them into her personal coin pouch. The other sovereigns she pulls toward her and into a box just out of sight. "Especially for one with such natural talent as you have."

I fight the blush from her complement creeping upon my pale cheeks and murmur a quick thank you. The matron-like woman chuckles and pours me a large stein of ale, and places it down in front of me. Grabbing the wooden mug, I take a long drink, from the russet-colored ale, enjoying the fullness of its body along with the delicate floral flavor of the honey mixed in with a nutty–-pecans in particular–-from the roasted malt. The slight headiness from the ale causes me to calm my mind and relax my body.

I take a full bowl of stew along with a piece of stale bread, my favorite combination. I enjoy my meal to the point that I feel happy and content, the first time I have felt as such in far too long a time. Since before I left the troubled streets of the Port of Wirhorst; left behind my uncaring whore of a mother. All the scum and lowlifes that I knew and were after me for one reason or another are hundreds of miles to the south, and without care enough to chase me this far. Now I have a belly full of food and alcohol, great music coming from the exceptional playing of the bard and her slightly husky voice becomes a beautiful thing when singing.

Though, I pull myself back from being too comfortable, always keeping an eye over my shoulder and a clear idea of my surroundings. I decline another ale from Aoife and just turn to look out over the bar's patrons. The early afternoon crowd has left to go back to their crafts, farms, nets, or whatever they must finish doing before the sun comes fully down. With only a few intrepid tourists and a handful of adventurers making their way north into the ancient Pass of Kiljorn. Which is the easiest way to get north of the Frost Dragon Mountains, where fortune, glory, and quick death await those brave and foolish enough. Not I, however: I prefer the comforts of a city to the untamed wilds. Still, the thought of heading up there to see what riches I can grab, alongside a reliable group, is enticing.

The bard is staring at me with piercing gray-colored eyes; an unreadable expression decorates her rather angular face. She has taken her cloak off, leaving the woman in a dark blue tunic, which has been repaired with multicolored patches. Her pair of black leather pants are scuffed with age but strong and still in well-maintained condition; along with two matching boots on her feet with little silver charms hanging off the sides.

"Do you like what you see?" I ask the woman from across the room.

She shrugs and grins at me, saying, "You are interesting. To say the least, anyway."

The woman gives a languid stretch before standing up with a slight yawn. Standing taller than me she moves with the grace of an elf and even has the right body type for it. One could almost mistake her for one if it wasn't for the ears and voice, distinctive of humans. After a moment, she comes up to stand beside me at the bar.

"One jigger of your finest whiskey," The woman orders.

A moment later a straw gold liquid is poured into a clean glass. The bard drinks it quickly before leaning on the bar looking at me.

"I'm Tegan," I offer my hand to her.

She smiles and grips my forearm in a strong shake, she says, "You can call me The Bard. Most people do."

"The Bard?"

The woman shrugs her shoulders with a quick head movement to get the bangs out of her eyes. After a moment she says, "Yeah, I find it direct and to the point. I've had my eyes on you since you entered."

"Is that so?" I ask as smooth as I can.

The Bard smirks before leaning in close to me, saying, "I am not the only one who has taken an interest. There were two dangerous-looking women asking about you around town. I didn't get the best look at their faces but be warned: didn't look friendly at all."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask as my suspicions of this woman question her intentions.

"Call it a hunch, but what is to come is bigger than all of us," She places a gold sovereign on the bar. "Aoife, this is for Tegan's stay here. As long as she needs it." The Bard looks back over at me, saying, "We will meet again. I am sure of it."

Before I can even get a word in, this mysterious stranger gives me a wink and tips her triangular hat. Turning on her heels, she strides back to where she was resting, tucks her rapier within her belt, straps her mandolin around her torso, over an ancient-looking lyre, and she is out the door in a flash.

The thoughts linger in my mind as I spend the rest of the day pondering over mugs of ale that I nurse for hours. My back is to the wall as I sit in a corner table far from the door, just in case. Paranoia on high alert for anyone interested in finding me, yet as day turns to evening and evening turns into the dark night that this area is famous for, nothing comes of it. I just find myself falling asleep on the table as the slow night waddles onward into the late, late hours.

"Tegan," Aoife says while she pushes on me a bit, "Wake up; I don't want to have to carry you to your room."

Blinking through sleep-dazed eyes, I look up at the elf. Yawning, I say, "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to pass out."

She shrugs, "There wasn't much going on. Just closing up early tonight."

Nodding, I stand up and gather my bearings for a moment. Stretching, I offer the woman a goodnight as I walk up the narrow staircase leading to the rooms. The landing has an old, faded red carpet set forward down the hallway, stained from dirty boots and misuse, and it adds a bit of charm to the antique-looking wooden floor. Opening my room's door at the end of the hall, I make an instinctive move as I look around for anything out of the ordinary. The familiar smell of old wood, stale tobacco smoke, and hay fill my nose, but nothing is out of the ordinary.

Upon the small dining table set in the corner near a window, that has a great view of the ocean, is a folded piece of parchment. Taking the crisp sheet, I open it up to reveal a note written in an elegant flowing style:

_Tegan of Wirhorst._

_We have been watching you, and admit we are impressed with your skills. There is a job for you. All details will be in a hollowed out log a short distance from the main gate - near the bowed willow. Your compensation will be generous beyond measure._

_-Friends_

I scan the spartan room one more time for any sign of forced entry or if I am not alone. Yet, once again I am all by myself with nothing to indicate something suspicious has happened. A concern of an ambush or a set up comes to mind, but I haven't been here long enough to get someone that pissed off at me. Splashing some water in my face from the fresh bowl off to the side, I force my senses back to full alert. With a renewal of my determination, I leave the tavern through the back door and outside stairs, as to not bother Aoife. I take to the abandoned streets where only the occasional town guard wanders.

Despite a few side-glances my way, I am not accosted by any of the underpaid guardsmen and am allowed to leave through the main gate without harassment. Flurries of snow begin to fall to the ground at a slow and steady pace, signaling the mass exodus of the tourists here. With the wind picking up, the snow has already spread across the ground and obscures my vision a bit. The area around the town is completely void of trees, having already been felled years ago in the building of ships, buildings, and what-have-you. So, I make my way toward the Snow Vale Woods, which lie off far into the distance, beyond what I can see, but I know exactly where it is.

Not a long walk by any means and kind of a beautiful one, at least at any other time, if I wasn't freezing. The snow has sculpted into various rounded shapes over everything around, giving the landscape a beautiful picturesque quality about it. As if it was part of a fantasy that a southerner would envision winter in the north. Despite missing the roaming packs of wolves that populate the lands or as I have been told, it isn't something I imagined the place to be.

Over a cresting hill, I find myself standing in front of the rather imposing and foreboding Snow Vale Woods. I know there isn't anything too dangerous in these trees unless you end up going far along the river that splits the forest in twain: deep within the heart of the woods, you can find orcs, goblins, trolls, and even mongrel centaurs. However, I doubt my employers ventured that deep. Still, I pull out my dagger from my belt and take a deep breath, the icy air somehow reinvigorating my energy as I do so. The snapping and cracking of the falling branches under the weight of snow and ice sound off in the distance, like boulders hitting the ground. My feet tromping through the snow adds to the noise and I curse my lack of grace in this environment.

After a short trek into the woods, I find myself in an odd copse of willows, usually the type of trees you see a bit south of here. I don't know how I found it, but I wander into this peculiar place, a frozen pond sits in the middle with an old log lying beside it as a makeshift bench. With a stump beside that, and this is where I find another piece of parchment and a doeskin pouch laden with its contents.

Opening the pouch, I see a great deal of silver and golden sovereigns inside. Tying it shut, I stuff the small bag into my sack. Taking the dry parchment, I unfold it:

_To the north, into the frozen wastes lies a ruin that leads deep underground. Inside is an ancient altar of the humans that migrated from over the seas. There will be a blade on the altar or around the altar. No one has entered this ruin in thousands of years. We know our information is more than reliable, however. You will gain riches beyond a single pouch of sovereigns. Prepare your mind and body. Use the money to outfit yourself but you must do this alone._

_You will recognize the entrance to the ruins when you find the two wolf statues. Once you have completed this task, we will contact you._

_We are watching._

_-Friends._

Reading over the note in the dim moonlight, which breaks through the canopy above, I am a bit dumbfounded. Looking around at the numerous shadows, I spot not a single thing out of the ordinary. Not a person around that I can perceive. Rolling the parchment up, I turn and make my way out of the forest back into the wide-open snowfield leading to Iona. Not too long after, I am back through the gates, headed towards the Lusty Octopus.

Not being able to do anything about it right now, I slip back into my room to try and get some rest. Sleep doesn't come to me easy this night, however, thinking about the job I have just taken up. Into the dangerous wastes alone with no one to watch my back or help me if I fall - the payout better be worth the risk. At least I can guarantee myself some choice pieces of loot being alone out there. I spend most of the night making a mental note on what I need to get tomorrow so I can head back out of the city.

I'm up at the breaking of the sun over the horizon, casting its rays across the snowfields. The town is already busy at work; as the days shorten work increases while people try to squeeze that last sovereign out. Even the petty criminals seem to be leaving as I stroll through the market. Less shady characters are lurking in the shadows, waiting for a purse to snatch. The type most people overlook but I keep an eye on since they are all competition to my very livelihood.

My destination is a sturdy redwood and stone building with a sign of an open chest and written upon it in Simple Common Runic states the rather generic General Goods. A man dressed in furs and hunter's garb stands through the wooden door holding it open for me and I walk into the familiar surroundings. The air is thick with the smell of leather and hardwood, which puts me at ease, a bit. Various gear, equipment, and general items are displayed all around the room, cluttered about in the rather small dwelling in no fixed order.

Mostly my shopping list consists of the basics one needs to survive out there. Flint, sleeping roll, a month's worth of dry rations, and a few other odds and ends that strike my fancy, more of them then I would think I'd need. Settling my debt with the merchant I make my way back into the cold, bitter air where the sun has begun to grow obscured by thick clouds. The crowd that once made this town a bustling city is thinning, and the place feels a bit empty as I look around the main square. Closing my eyes, I inhale the scent of this town-salt water, fish, and leather-all floating on the crisp morning air.

Opening my eyes with a new sense of determination and no longer any doubt in my mind, I head towards the front gate where a large caravan of pack mules, horses, wagons, and numerous humans and hired elven workers load goods heading to Skjeld before the major snowstorms take over the north. Causing a bit of a sense of urgency inside of me as it is quite a far trip just to get to the general area. For now, I make my way through the caravan and exit the town.

"This is going to be interesting," I say to myself as I take my first step north toward the pass.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Year 3221, Mayri 26th

 

One Thousand Eighty-One Years Before Present

Across the great Spectral Ocean, lies a land where humanity originally came from, thousands upon thousands of years ago. The ocean itself is the largest, most dangerous body of water in the entire world, with waves and storms that can topple the best of ships with the most experienced sailors. Though, trips across are uncommon enough that it hasn't lost its luster for the adventurous. Syr's fury is still felt there and the people who travel it bring tales of sea monsters as large as buildings, giant waves demolishing mountains that jut out from the ocean to never reappear again, and so many other far-fetched stories, most believe that's exactly what they are - stories.

The land across the ocean, from whence humanity is derived, isn't much different than its counterpart. Warfare dominates life, culture, and everything the people do. Religions are devoted to various gods and goddess of combat, conflict, and even ambushes, though that's a goddess rarely respected except by small cults. Great stone fortifications dot the landscape, alongside farms and homesteads that spring up whenever an outpost for war is set up. What this land also values, almost as much as war itself, is bards and skalds who sing songs honoring heroes, glorious battles, rulers, and the general history of the lands and its kingdoms; packing taverns and pubs every night with common folk and gentry alike to listen to these ballads.

Though most cannot write nor read, they can recite to you the most famous tales and epics that have been passed down from generation to generation. Each one slightly altering an element here, or a detail there, where even the most devoted will admit that the stories hide the truth behind drama and liberties taken to the story itself.

The town of Meerbeke lies along the old Imperial Highway, this separates the former human capital of Dhent and the cultural maritime city of, and current capital, Glanywafyn. Ancient stone buildings make up the bulk of Meerbeke with recent additions of wooden homes and shops along the outside perimeter of the old wall. Just mere yards from the edge of the low-lying marshes which exist outside of the populated area, sitting upon a natural harbor surrounded on two sides by high cliffs that keep the weather at bay, which the locals call Hogekliff, used since time immemorial as a haven for ships to anchor during storms.

One of the oldest, largest buildings within the town is the Royal Heraldic Colleges of Bardic and Skaldic Arts. It also happens to house the best creative minds in all the lands: musicians, poets, writers, playwrights, actors, and various others from far and wide. Despite it no longer catering to just the bardic profession, the school is still considered the finest of its type for the minstrel wanting to improve themselves. It is also a good way to earn a small bit of recognition, as your name is permanently added to the school’s bardic register, even if you don't graduate. Not every great bard has attended this school: some don't have the influence, wealth, or fame to be invited within its hallowed halls, but many have and those who leave the school will always have good, long careers.

The air is thick with the haze of smoke, as both men and women sit around the tavern puffing on pipes that are both simple and ornate. It is easy to spot the social standing of someone by the style and type of smoking device they have. Sitting by the window overlooking the harbor I get a good view of all the patrons, trying to gauge what type of songs to play, or if I should recite the few non-musical stories we have here. The innkeeper expects me, like every other night for the past three years, to perform and earn my keep - a comfortable routine that I've never had before.

Traveling from town to town with my mother, as my father was nowhere to be found, she would sing, play her lyre, or do whatever it took to entertain a crowd for a handful of sovereigns, while teaching me how to read a person's feelings, motivations, and goals. She also taught me how to use words to manipulate and persuade people into doing whatever I need or want, at least for the most part. She also taught me all the old stories and songs, of which I have written down in my books and scrolls stuffed within the old satchel at my hip, which was passed down from her.

Looking over at the barkeep who has an expectant look upon his aged face, I smile at the man with my broad, toothy smile that people have told me is rather charming, but something I just do, I can be rather manipulative by instinct. Grabbing my rosewood mandolin with an ebony neck from off the table, I lean back in the large wooden chair. Tightening my grip upon the instrument, I begin to play an aimless melody. My fingers moving up and down the fret board as I pick out a song that just comes together, a good way to both warm up my fingers and to draw attention to myself.

People quiet their conversations and focus themselves on the music. As I wander through the non-committal tune, I find myself strumming the opening notes of a particularly famous saga, one of the first my mother taught me and won't ever forget, no matter my age. The Saga of Floris tells the tale of a common man who ended up becoming the first High King of all humanity. Driving the hated dwarves from the land, back down into the earth where they came from, falling in love with a rival's daughter and uniting all of humankind. At least for a little while anyways, peace never lasts, but it set the precedence for all other kingdoms to come after. Until this solidified kingdom we have now, all the smaller, factional ones had rulers who claimed some type of connection to this man.

It is a long and drawn out song, but that's how the crowd wants it. They love every detail, even the ones that have been twisted with time, and would rather the song take half an hour then miss anything. That's the quickest way to be driven out of town in this area--not giving the crowd what they want. As the song finally ends, I finish the last few notes with a flourish of my right arm, bowing to the applauding crowd as the last note hangs in the air. Several sovereigns are tossed my way, mostly copper, but I also nab a few silver ones as well. Making the audience throw me their sovereigns and their rest at ale, mead, and the rare wine - an enjoyable type of crowd control.

“That has always been one of my favorite sagas to sing. My mom taught me that one before any other story or song. When I was a wee lass,” I say with a smile. Looking over the assembled crowd, I notice a few young adults around my age, dressed in finery that one would have bequeathed to them if they were a student at the college.

My smile grows larger as I get applause from those who are supposed to be better than I, a bit of an internal validation. Hours go by as I play one request after another, playing to the locals as there isn't a song or saga asked for that I haven't heard of. Patrons shower me with sovereigns and free drinks. Though, I make sure to not become too inebriated, because I must keep my wits about me. For the brave thief to try and slip a hand into my purse shall end up rather skewered by my rapier.

By the time I retire playing for the night, the inn is packed, and my purse is quite a bit heavier. Students, professors, tourists, locals, and people of all types fill the place, dancing, singing, and just enjoying themselves the best that they can. Letting the drink, tobacco, and music cause a heady euphoria that I find myself indulging in right along with them. Being the epicenter of it all until I must call it a night.

“Another good night,” I look up at Loes, the young owner of the inn, and give her a grin. The older barkeep stands beside her, cleaning glasses, mugs, and steins. As well as other side work, he occupies himself with.

The woman starts counting tonight’s earnings hunched over while she works. Not looking up at me, I spot a grin spread across her face despite being down turned. In her strong northern accent, she replies, “Aye. Thanks to you. The past three years of good nights. Earned your room and board once again. Caspar, get her whatever. I'm going to be in the back.”

I've had a good thing going on here after I moved back home. With no family left, I have stayed here at The Water Cross Inn for just over three years, playing to the crowds the same songs and stories with no need to change up the routine. I would get people into the bar and they would buy themselves, as well as me, drinks over the night. Free food and alcohol once the night is over and just before the place opens for business. I'm just expected to put on a good show daily, without fail.

Which is fine by me, as I spent four years traveling the lands shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I had to get away and make my own path. It was tough, but I survived. Yet, when I expected to see my mother’s warm smile as I returned home, I found out she had passed. Now, I've been stuck in this routine for far too long, mired in a safe situation. I enjoy the steady income and practice that I get from playing so much, not to mention it's nice to up show those pretentious students at the college. However, it has become rather boring and predictable.

On this night, I find myself staring up at the wooden ceiling that is kept to a meticulous level of clean, with nary a speck of dust or strand of cobweb. The light from a candle on the small table beside my bed flickers, casting long shadows across the room. Gentle rolling waves sing a soothing song as they break upon the harbor, carried upon a warm breeze that smells as if the ocean itself was in my room - I do love the southern coast of Valsen this time of year.

A faint tune finds its way to my ears, like a songbird perched upon a roof, yet I know it is far too late for them to sing. A distinctive lilting note from a harp seems to follow the sound with a slow ballad of its own. Then, just as quick as it came, the harp bridges into an upbeat mandolin. And, soon after, a quick tambourine cuts in, playing a beat that would make a person get up to dance, even if they didn't want to do so.

Sitting up in the small bed as a luminescent musical note floats in through my open window, trapped in awe at the sight of this piece of beautiful magic. Never have I seen such a blatant display of it, and it is entrancing to behold. Dazzling in the colors it changes into, like what you see after a hard rain and the sun shines casting great rainbows. The note grows larger as it forms into the outline of a young man with hair just past his shoulders. It morphs into an almost liquid form before it becomes an actual human-like persona.

Standing the same height as I am with a smile across his angular, some would say handsome, features; a lute is strapped across his torso, the instrument resting against his back. A silk tunic covers his chest with slight ruffles on the cuffs; rather simple black leather pants cover his legs with the matching rolled boots. Eyes of an intense aquamarine seem to bore direct into the center of my being whilst he looks at me.

I open my mouth to speak but no sound escapes my lips despite them forming into the words I have been so confident to use just a mere few hours ago. Now there is just nothing on my breath as I watch this man while he seems to adjust to his surroundings.

“It has been too long,” The man says in a musical tone. “I forgot how it feels to be in the mortal realm. Like a beautiful disconnect, in a way.” He looks around the room for a moment. It is hard to tell what this man is thinking, as he seems rather eccentric. I raise an eyebrow, as he looks around the room with an almost wide-eyed innocence. Then, as he remembers why he is here, his gaze is affixed back onto me. “Oh, sorry. I forgot my manners it seems,” He speaks as he bows in a rather flamboyant style. “I am Jastiv, the Bard and Keeper of Histories. At your service, miss.”

My breath catches in my throat, in disbelief. Magic is an event of a rare nature that only a select few possess the talents for; I find my natural incredulity taking over.

“How, and why, would a god visit me? Out of everyone, why me?” I ask.

He raises his right hand up a bit and snaps his fingers. In a blink of an eye I am no longer sitting on the bed in my room. Ancient stone walls surround me in a bedroom far bigger than mine is, or I could dream of mine ever being, decorations fit for royalty line the walls, purple velvet curtains hang in front of a large stained-glass window casting a bevy of colors upon the room, and several large painted landscapes of places I've never seen before line the walls. With what seems to be an almost impossible amount of heavy wooden bookshelves laden with scrolls, tens of thousands upon thousands of scrolls all in what appears to be pristine and perfect condition, but I cannot be sure.

“Amazing,” I utter to myself.

“Thank you,” He quips. “I do not just show myself to anyone, nor do I bring them to my library.”

“Your library?” I ask.

He raises a sweeping gesture of his arm towards all the scrolls.

“The entire recorded history of the world. It is a pet project of mine. To record all events--both mortal and immortal--in song, share them with select bards here and there to get them into circulation. So, the past, and those involved with it, would never be forgotten.”

“But I doubt they stay the exact way you had them recorded. I admit that I have changed the details of some songs and stories to make them more entertaining,” A bit of an uncharacteristic meek tone betrays my nervousness and awe. “Not exactly truthful and faithful to the, uh, source material.”

“That's how it is supposed to be. Which is why I am keeping the stories here,” Jastiv says and runs a fingertip across the vellum of a nearby scroll. “Even with my powers, I can't chronicle, or even hope, to write this all down for posterity. Select mortals have, in the past, become my Bard: a man or woman with whom I entrust to write the stories and events of a current age or era. As well as pursue whatever I ask of them and to be my hand upon the mortal plane.”

“You want me to be this person?”

Jastiv raises his hand up and tilts it from side-to-side, saying, “I think you are the best candidate, but I need a more definitive answer. Three months’ time, in Dhent there will be the Festival of The Kings. Enter the Bardic competition. The winner will be my chronicler and bard, as well as other things that I may think of.”

“Saga, Poetry, and Instrument,” I say, “I went the last three times but have yet to get an invitation. A bit awe-inspiring to see the best up on stage.”

“Well only you know what is at stake: I have not reached out to others yet. There are a couple I might, but I must admit to favoring you, Katherine,” He says, sitting upon the down-filled mattress beside me. “I'm not going to interfere, and I cannot see the future. What I will say is I have the utmost confidence in you. So, with that said, here's a genuine invite to the tournament,” A small flash of light comes from the palm of his right hand, after a moment, a scroll lies upon it. He says, “This is from the Bard Laureate of the Duke of Oudergem. Despite him never having met you, this is sealed with his seal and it is his signature upon the vellum. His Wild Card invite to any bard who happens to find it in their possession.”

He offers the scroll to me and I take it with great care, looking at the parchment within my hand as if it is a divine artifact. Which it very well may be with what has just happened. My eyes travel to the blood red wax seal in the shape of the Lyre of Nirnie, a mythical instrument that anyone even vaguely familiar with our myths and stories will know of.

“Well I will definitely try my best,” I say before looking up. To my astonishment, I find myself back in my room. The salt-scented breeze bringing a comforting reminder of home to my senses, and that I am no longer where I was. Immediately I fall onto the softness of the bed taking a huge breath. “Wow.”

Taking the invitation, I store it among the rest of my scrolls and parchment. Pulling out an empty scroll, my favorite quill, and an inkwell, I make my way over to the wooden table and chair near the window. Words flow from me without thought as the tip of the quill writes a story that I have only a vague recollection of, an epic of Jakobus The Founder. An almost myth-like figure in ancient human history that helped forge the first empire along with Floris. Whose stories have become more divine in origin than the one I am writing now. No, this is quite a different tale from what I know of the men and their lives, which is why I can't help but feel something is controlling me - especially the story of Jakobus, and I wonder how the audience will take it.

The story of a man who struggles against rival factions and a horde of monsters and dwarves trying to overtake the land; who, despite falling in love with a common girl, ends up married to a rival noble's daughter to consolidate power, and ends up giving him more right to rule in the eyes of most. Both a politician and a tactician, I write about events I never heard of, this sudden inspiration no doubt involving Jastiv himself, The Accord of Gaasbeek, where the king of Dhent, Jakobus, and Floris agreed to an alliance. Against the king's long-term allies of Volen that gave The Founder and his ally enough time to ambush and massacre almost the entire city and its province, showing how much these power-hungry men wanted the throne. Eliminating the direct line of an ancient royal house that could have challenged any right to rule.

Usually my countrymen and women prefer stories more epic and heroic, but they have never been averse to cold, hard truths. Something I hope helps me shine, with a part of me believing my actions as divine influence and meant to be. Still, there's another part of me that thinks the residents of Dhent will raise up to lynch me and the Queen will be taking off my head. Before sending it, and my body, off to the four corners of the country. A sobering thought that I would rather not give time entertaining.

It takes less than a day to write out four scrolls worth of the epic, astounding myself with how much I got done. This is alongside my usual responsibilities with paying for my own room and board. An overwhelming warm sense of accomplishment overcomes me. Picking up my mandolin, I lean back in my chair and just begin to play the first thing that comes to mind, a rather normal activity of mine no matter the hour.

“It will be you,” A barely audible voice softly echoes against the wooden walls of the tavern, yet I still hear it as clear as if someone was whispering into my ear.


	4. Chapter 4

Year 3221, Angar 26th

One Thousand Eighty-One Years Before Present

Dhent has another name and moniker other than the first true long-lasting human settlement: it is also known as the city of metal and stone. With large buildings constructed from dwarven techniques stolen before time was recorded, giving it the largest theaters, amphitheaters, and arenas for common folk and the gentry to keep amused. From plays and concerts to gladiatorial contests and fights of honor - all forms of mass entertainment can be found here. Not to mention nearly anything else one could want if they got the sovereigns for it; both legal and otherwise.

The impressively large arena that sits within the middle of the city is more than likely the oldest coliseum in the entire world, standing in the exact same spot that has existed longer than human memory in the area. Countless lives have been lost on the white sands that I stand on, but many legends and stories have begun on the exact same spot. A part of me hopes that perhaps one day someone will tell my story and it will start right here. My ego inflates at the prospect for a moment but is quickly put down.

More people than I have ever seen in any one place has now gathered in the ancient stone seating that surrounds the white sands, even more than was at the last tournament I saw here. Not a single seat is empty as servants of various genders and colors deliver alcohol, food, and even pillows to sit upon. Several bards, artists, musicians, and other performers surround me as they recite lyrics, tune their instruments, or just stand with their eyes closed fortifying themselves. The final day of the tournament that started in various venues all over the city is upon us. Now is the storytelling part of the tournament and everyone is going to want an epic. Where one can make themselves famous enough to live off patronage alone, growing fat and content without having to exercise a creative bone for the rest of their lives.

The Master of Ceremonies, or closest to such a role, is clad in the traditional white and purple silk robes that were associated with the bardic order when it was a more traditional guild. Now we tend to be more of a loose affiliation, where only elder bards care enough to have a say in anything. A crown of ivy leaves encircles his balding head, and rings of various precious stones and gems cover his hands which gleam in the sun as they move.

“Welcome to the final day of The Festival of Kings,” The man's voice silences the crowd; booming throughout the arena by some machinations of a device unseen. “Today is the day that will separate the bawdy bar room minstrels into the singers and storytellers of legend. Our competitors will have one chance to recite--to song or by itself--a story of legend, myth, or the truth insofar as they know it. Then our esteemed, learned judges will give their vote and opinion upon the matter before finally choosing a winner.”

The crowd murmurs among themselves but the old bard raises a wrinkled hand up, silencing them once again. With a smile he says, “The competition begins shortly. Prepare yourself--both competitors and spectators--it will be entertaining and challenging. One legend will be made today but take heart that you have made it this far: for only the most talented end up here. Best of luck to you all.”

The sun has dipped below the horizon as it comes upon my time to perform. Torches, hundreds of them it seems, line the grounds and the stands illuminating the area almost as if the sun was still up, but leaving the stars up in the sky visible despite it all, giving me a bit of a calm peace inside. My eyes close for a moment as I enjoy a slight chilling early autumn gust of wind that brings a medley of aromas with it. From baked bread and foods of the taverns on the other side of the stone wall, to the smell of coke and soot from the industries on the outskirts of town that somehow reach this far into the city. I am not even paying attention to the other performers, as I know I won’t be able to enjoy them in the least. So, my mind wanders with everything and anything stimulating my senses in the slightest.

“The Ballad of Beatriijs and Nienke is as old as time itself -- a tale of love in a time when love was restricted to certain conservative standards. Quite an entertaining version that I've yet had the pleasure to experience before,” The older, weary-looking master of ceremonies silences everyone simply by speaking. “Thank you Minstrel Aalt. Now we have our last performer: our resident wildcard who has surprised us since the opening bell of the festivities. So, I present to you the daughter of the famous bard Ineke--Katherine of Meerbeke!”

With a bit of hesitation, as if this is the first performance I have ever given, I stand up and grab the well-polished mandolin leaning against my heavy wooden chair. The tune for this story I have honed over the last three months, damn near the only thing I focused on outside my standard performances at the inn I live in. I have every note of this song memorized, even as far as I may improvise with it, if the mood of the crowd suggests that might be a good idea. Though, the few musicians who have tried to do so today only made themselves look like fools, so perhaps, not the best idea. The crowd here is unforgiving in all aspects.

I walk over to the wooden platform, set several yards above the sand in the direct middle of the complex. Each footfall of mine upon the steps seems to echo throughout the entire coliseum. My breathing is controlled, short, and as normal as I can possibly make it. Just another performance, at least I tell myself with each step. Otherwise, I feel like my legs would force me to flee, regardless of how prepared I am.

Turning to face the three judges sitting behind a makeshift table with a half-empty bottle of red wine positioned between them I expect that they too, are tired of all the performances, but part of their responsibility is to see it out to the end. Just my luck to have a crowd that might not be outright hostile but will not be receptive to listening to some no-name bard who must live off her mother's reputation in this tournament.

“Not for long,” I whisper to myself, but it was almost involuntary.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and strum the first notes of the song, singing the story that has become second nature to me. Still, I can't explain how the performance begins without a hitch; I miss not a single detail of the story I recorded: neither stumbling over a word, nor missing a single note upon my instrument. The reaction is unexpected, as people seem to perk up to the refreshing change for a figure who is as renowned as The Founder is. A human side to such a figure long revered and deified isn't met with boos and calls for my head. The audiences, as well as the judges, listen with such intentness and it is indescribable to experience.

Warmth forms in the pit of my stomach from the excitement and my nerves, and moves through my body, down my legs to my toes, goes across my arms to the tips of my fingers, and to the crown of my head. My voice is bolstered, strong, and my playing seems to come at a pace I could not and would not expect from myself. Playing my absolute heart out until the last words resonate from my throat, which is strained and aches as the song falls silent.

I am captured, speechless in the moment as I look around at the spectators tossing their hats and cloaks onto the white sands, their applause rising through the area in a loud wave as I just watch it all. It isn't but a moment later, one of the many attendants shoos me off the stage and back to my seat with the other competitors. Who say not a word to me, but only analyze, judge, condemn me with their looks, but it doesn't bother me in the least, not at this stage of the competition.

 Recalling the first class, high rate performances of others with more familiar epics, legends, and stories of wars long past. Though, to deny that there is a tugging sense of accomplishment and acclaim on my mind that the accolades have just begun for me from this performance I put on, would be a lie. A familiar presence influences me and my movements, but I cannot put my finger upon what it is. I have a guess, however.

When the elder bardic master of ceremonies takes the wooden platform, and silences the crowd, it is as if one could drop a needle and it would ring throughout the entire coliseum.

“Now has come the time to bestow upon a bard the title of High Skald for the best performance of all the events we have witnessed these last few entertaining days. First, I would like to congratulate all our performers who have made it this far. You all truly are the best of the best in the lands, but only one can be deemed the winner. So, without further ado the High Skald for this tournament, and to forever be immortalized in our annals, with a story that I have been informed is historically accurate. And one should expect this with her heritage, I present the High Skald--Katherine of Meerbeke!”

A dream is how it feels, to stand up among my peers and contemporaries and be told that I am the best. Walking across the white sands, as a cool autumn wind blows by me, whilst my name is celebrated once again by the crowd, loud and undoubtedly heard through most of the city. It is the type of experience that goes far beyond dreaming and reality into a sense of surrealism that I have never felt before. Accepting the man's handshake along with a writ declaring my status as a royally supported bard, and a pouch full of sovereigns that would be enough to not work again for the entire year.

Before I can leave the wooden platform, the man holds me still while declaring me the overall winner of the bardic festival once again. Placing a gold medallion with the face of the current ruler High Queen Myria IV around my neck, an ornamental golden lyre with the year of the festival etched into it. A rather strong servant stands beside me carrying my winnings of a pouch and ornamental lyre, and I seem to lose touch with reality. Not even sure if this is happening or if I dropped down dead upon the way to my performance and I have long since left the mortal realm.

I am being introduced to people I have only heard of -- bards, writers, artists, sculptors, and creative types that congratulate me on an unforgettable performance. Getting the same from nobles and even royalty as I meet the Duke of Oudergem, who is the younger brother of Queen Myria IV and was my unwilling sponsor, giving the man a respectful bow before he shakes my hand enthusiastically. His guards, dressed in the finest of armor and arms, stand in stoic silence around him.

“What an utmost pleasure it was to watch you perform. Rather boring tournament this year outside of yourself, milady. As most know I consider myself a patron of arts and culture. So as such I would like to extend an invitation to have dinner with you some time,” He suggests with an almost unsettling smile, offering his hand for me, and I am quick to take it and bend down to kiss the signet ring upon it.

“Oh, it would be an honor, milord,” I reply.

Knowing full well he just offered me dinner to keep up a facade, at least if the rumors about him and his war advisor are true; as it would do the Duke well to be seen with the first female High Skald in two generations. I do not mention it or even act like I have heard such rumors, nor do I suggest the true nature of my attractions to the man. I would be a fool to turn him, or in the unlikely event his advances, down as it would be easy for him to ruin me. So, pure power and influence would be my only endgame. The thoughts of the court have already begun to permeate my mind, even this soon, causing a rising bile of disgust to come to the back of my throat.

“Wonderful, milady,” He makes a display of kissing my right hand, “Await my courier then for further details. I shall remain your most ardent admirer and will look forward to our next meeting.”

The evening is spent drinking carafe after carafe of the dark red wine that is produced in the far west, eating a variety of foods from dozens of tables that I am not fully sure what it is that I am putting into my mouth, and talking with people I have seen from afar, who decides the fate of most of us. Answering questions about my plans--creatively and otherwise. Most are seeking to be my patron and commission me to craft a song or story honoring them or their house, until I find myself stumbling into a side room, at where the feast hall attaches to the coliseum. A storage area of chairs, platters, tableware, and various things one might need when hosting so many people.

Drunken, I sit upon a chair whose legs are uneven on the stone floor. Running a hand through my hair as I try to gather my bearings and get away from it all. Slick with sweat from the nerves and the heat of the alcohol warming my body, it doesn't take long for me to realize I am not alone in here.

“What a day, right?” Jastiv says stepping out from the shadows.

“Thank you,” I say after a moment.

He shrugs, “You won based on your own talent. I just gave you the inspiration to draw it out.”

“When do I begin?” I ask with a bit more clarity.

“Very soon,” He sits down on a chair beside me. “You will spend a long time with me. Many years, probably a decade or more depending on how quick you take. I will teach you how to master every instrument in existence. How to become a great bard and chronicle events to keep it all in posterity. Lots of work to do, but that will be tomorrow. As for tonight,” The god looks toward the door as the words escape his lips. The sound of two women, talking about cleaning, comes from the other side. Their voices muffled but distinctive.

In a moment, the door opens to show a rather humble but attractive-looking brunette with shoulder-length hair, dressed in a gown with an apron tied around it, she gasps for a moment once she sees me. Startled, as I realize that I am alone again, and that perhaps my god's influence is here, especially noticing the half-carafe of wine beside me that wasn't there before.

“Good evening. Didn't mean to scare you, just needed to get away from it all. You know, I am not used to all the good food, great wine, and boring conversations.”

“Milady, it is quite alright. Just didn't expect you, 'tis all,” She says while catching her breath for a moment -- her companion having already left to attend to some other duty. “Aren't you Katherine? We could watch the performances after everything was set up for tonight.”

“Aye, I am,” I reply. “I got half-a-carafe of wine. Would you like to join me? Very much prefer your company than the company of just myself or those puffs out there.” A smirk crosses my features, and I notice a blush come across hers.

Hours have passed to the point that the sun has just broken over the horizon, and the lovely woman has scurried off by now. Telling me how much she enjoyed the evening, how she doesn't care that she will be in trouble, but how we will never see each other again, considering she is married, but I pay her no heed as I had no intentions on being more than a great evening. I tell her sweet words, and the truth that she was very enjoyable company. A quick kiss, and she gives me a wink, and is out the door. Presumably, to make up an excuse on why she was gone. Perhaps she will just tell the truth and tell everyone that she spent the evening with the High Skald.

“Ready?” Jastiv's familiar voice comes from behind me.

Nodding, I say, “I am ready to see my story unfold.”


	5. Chapter 5

Year 4302, Angar 24th

Ten Years Before Present

The flash of steel in the late day sun catches the side of my vision and I am just able to get my long, narrow dagger up in time to deflect the blow from an unseen attacker. With trees surrounding me on all sides, I can't be sure of what or who is attacking me. The creaking of old bones and a moan that seems to originate from the depths of the Void tell me what I have encountered; now I wish I didn't know. Fearsome, unholy, and it is my first time dealing with such abhorrent magics.

A small group of skeletons armed and armored in equipment that hasn't been in common use for millennia, step out from the long shadows within the trees surrounding me. There isn't a single moment to think, as I deflect another blow, dodging to the right of a sword that would have run me through. A strong kick to the knee causes the closest of them to fall to the ground, while a strong follow up stomp to the brittle skull ends its unlife forever; perhaps some poor, trapped soul whispers a thank you to me. My momentary disregard causes a sharp pain across my cheek from the razor-honed edge of an old sword—-the ancient swords of the first settlers that begin narrow near the guard and got wider as the blade went up, adding to the cleaving power, that they called xiphos, opening a wide gash that runs with a river of blood as hot as lava flowing down my chin and neck.

Summoning all my strength, I kick it in its pelvis forcing it several feet back into a pile of its useless bones. Ducking my head from a decapitating blow, I grab its forearm and toss the rather light skeleton onto its back, ending its movement with a quick jab of my dagger that destroys its skull, but there is not a moment to rest as an arrow whizzes by and striking a tree just a couple of feet away from me. I roll out of the way of another arrow that a skeleton shoot at me with uncanny speed. I end up behind a tree just as an arrow strikes the wood, causing a loud crack to sound out. Leaning my head back against the cold bark for a moment, I curse myself for being out here alone like the idiot I am, but I shake out any negative thoughts trapped within my head.

"This is the test," I say to myself.

Then, an icy and chilling feeling penetrates me to the core, and it isn't from the bitter wind and snow on the ground. A sound rings out that seems to have been imagined in a mad sorcerer's nightmare, beginning in the very fiber of myself, and I find my movements unwittingly paralyzed with a fear I never thought I could feel. The evil thing is unhappy it has lost its clear shot on me.

Trying to move is an effort in futility; summoning all my will to push back this fear and block it from my mind is a monumental task. I listen as the old bones tromp through the snow and loose branches as it looks for me. It gets closer and my panic rises within my throat, trapped inside a body that fails me. Traitorous thing! Refusing the orders of my brain, except that I can close my dry eyes, blinking the snowflakes and wind out of them. Focusing on that, I find the simple movement of opening and closing my mouth, moving my head upon my neck, and my fingers twitch with as much pure will that my mental fortitude can possibly summon. Then, once the abomination is within distance and I can smell the mold growing upon its bones, I reach out and yank it to the ground.

With stiff movements, I pin it to the snow-covered ground, and it is defiant in its desire to struggle free. Grabbing a nearby stone, I crush the skull into tiny pieces. Groaning in pain from the stiff muscles as I finish up my task and stand back up, leaning against the tree I take several deep breaths as I calm myself, regaining full control of my body again from the fear that wanted to paralyze me. Sheathing my weapon after retrieving it from the snow, I wipe the sweat off my forehead. I look around the bones for anything that could be of use, but only find the weapons and gear that disintegrates into a powder as soon as I touch them. The magics that enchanted the bones, keeping it all intact is now gone. Never meant to be touched by mortal hands ever again.

The snow has finally abated for the first time in days as I've made slow progress north. I have avoided most of the dangerous, deadly monsters that I would have no chance against by myself. Trolls, orcs, cyclops, and the dangerous beasts that roam around here are all spoken of in stories. The undead are the most populous of the monsters, but easiest for me to handle. Though, it has been a test of will and fear the entire trip thanks to these ghouls. There rests a feeling that I am getting closer to my destination. An instinct I can't help but feel is right, and quite impossible to ignore, lies in the pit of my stomach, and the back of my mind. I am going the right way regardless of where my feet take me.

With only a couple of hours of sunlight left, I make camp in a thick copse of trees with an opening that nature has set off as a natural blind against the weather. Quickly constructing the sturdy tent I bought in Iona, I make haste with digging a deep hole to build a fire for food and heat. Finding wood and tinder isn't hard, but it is all wet. I am thankful I still have some dry wood in my pack from days before; I start a small fire that grows into a bigger one, which drives the moisture out of the wet pieces. Creating a little spit from a metal rod I found a week back and some branches. I pull out a dead rabbit I trapped a few hours ago at an opportune moment, quite a lucky catch if there ever was one.

I make a simple meal of this rabbit and some frozen snowberries I foraged when I came across several large bushes full of the rich fruit. Ice-glazed from the weather, yet the delicate sweetness inside it still resides, and like hard candy, I must suck on them a moment before consuming the cold sweet. Such a simple, pleasant pass time helps fill in the empty moments as I sit under several furs in front of a fire, waiting for my meal to be cooked to my satisfaction. After eating my dinner, I try and get some sleep under the tent. The exertions of the day have me succumbing to exhaustion and sleep before too much time passes.

I am awakened by a tree branch breaking and falling to the ground not too far from me. The sun hasn't cracked the horizon, but evidence of its existence has begun to show itself. Making no difference to me, I exit the tent and complete some necessary morning routines before eating a handful of berries. Tucking into what is left over from the rabbit, and I am back heading north before the hour is up.

With the snow stopping and the skies clearing just in time to show the sun hanging high in the sky as midday presents itself, the forest thins out and disappears into the rolling tundra ahead and the foothills of the mountains. Large blocks carved out of marble and old statues and columns loom over me as I approach. Ruins of the old empire long gone from the world except for the decrepit bones it has left behind. Ancient tool marks in the blocks show they haven't been worked on in who-knows-how-long. The energy spent on them was almost a waste for it to end up forgotten, lost to time and never to return.

Turning around a semi-intact marble wall engraved with faded figures long lost to collective memory, I spot a cave mouth reinforced by stone and thick-banded metal. Two statues of what looks like wolves flanking both sides with half of the left statue missing. I know this is the right place, and what I need to acquire resides somewhere deep within - I doubt it is the only thing down there, however.

Looking around at the frozen landscape I find myself alone with not a single sign of life: no footprints or any sign that anyone has been here in the recent past, or that even an animal or beast has just happened to wander into here. A fierce wind kicks up some snow and blinds me for a short moment, strengthening my resolve to head inside to get out of this horrible weather and its low, bone-chilling temperatures, that freeze me to the core. Even the risk of danger from the unknown inside the depths of this dungeon sounds and feels, preferable to being out in this horrible place for one more single minute.

A sense of foreboding lingers inside my gut, but I push it aside as I step into the shadows heading deep in the cave. Stopping to let my eyes adjust to the little light inside, I listen for anything that might indicate that I am not alone. Not a single sound is heard, not even a pebble falling from the ceiling. Nothing breaks the silence that seems to engulf me as I take cautious steps forward, my right hand pressed against the cold, rough stone wall giving me something to navigate by.

Time is meaningless as I follow the turns and subtle downward movement at a pace so slow that I fear I am not moving at all. But the last thing I want to do is trip over a trap and end up as another dead adventurer forgotten to history. A distinctive, horrendous, foul odor of decay starts as a faint smell, but as I move further onward it gets stronger and more odious. The aroma has become almost overwhelming when I find myself losing grasp of the wall as I step into a large cavern.

In the blink of an eye, several unseen torches spring to life, illuminating the large room in front of me and casting shadows about the area. Broken altars formerly formed into a circle many ages ago are covered in spider webs and broken bowls, with the dark rust-colored stains telling the story of what used to be inside. Old bleached bones-–skulls, femurs, and fingers-–cover the threadbare, moth-eaten cloth upon the altars still intact.

A set of stone stairs leads down further into the depths with a well-placed pressure trap right before it. An easy step over and I am moving down the steps where the smell gets even stronger, almost to the point of throwing up, gagging at the stench. The torches' flames flicker in and out of existence and the fear inside me rises to an almost crescendo pitch.

Sharp pain assaults my forehead, driving me almost down to my knees and I lean against the cold, wet stone to prevent myself from tumbling down the stairs. The pain is almost blinding as I take several steps down until I am on the ground with no risk of falling to my death. Looking over, I spot a soft aquamarine glow pulsating off an altar.

As my eyes focus upon it, I spot several grotesque sculptures made from the bones of what appears to be humans, elves, and dwarves. The light turns into a dark crimson casting about shadows, which increases my unease. Stepping toward it causes another intense batch of agony forcing me to kneel. Intense pain coincides as memories shoot in front of my eyes from my childhood showing scenes, I have long thought forgotten. Shaking my head causes the hallucination of my mother to disappear, but the intensity persists.

"Tegan," A feminine voice whispers just behind me.

In an instant, I draw my dagger and turn around despite the discomforting fear; the hairs on my neck are standing up. Yet all I see is the wall and nothing else: not a single living creature or bug. The ambient light transitions to a faint orange, then purple. The pain shoots through my forehead and throughout my entire body. Crumbling to the ground, I keep from passing out as best as I can. However, in the end I find my mind yielding and my eyes closing.


	6. Part 6

Year 4302, Angar 28th

Ten Years Before Present

A dull throbbing pounds within my forehead as my senses begin to awaken. Muffled footsteps and conversations can be heard just within hearing range, yet the sound of breathing right above me is of more concern. There is hard, cold stone underneath me, with hemp ropes twining around my limbs keeping me in place. As I open my eyes, I spot a woman just a bit taller than I wearing an ornate mask shaped in the face of a demon—hideous mouth with a tongue that curls up and out, to lick at the bulbous nose, and curved horns coming from both sides of the mask. She is clad in black leather brigandine that covers her from neck to toe. A weathered bandolier with seven daggers within it is strapped across her torso with several small pouches and bags upon it.

"Tegan of Wirhorst," The woman's voice is deep, commanding. "You have come a long way from the southern coasts, from the brothel's private rooms, to the streets, to Iona, and now here."

I try to say something, but a gloved hand covers my mouth and forces me to stare at the woman above.

"I am sure you have many questions, but for now, I will tell you this. You have been picked as a candidate to become a member of the Sisterhood of Loira. You will be put through some of the hardest challenges and lessons you will ever experience. You will learn to fight and hone yourself into a weapon. You will learn dedication, loyalty, and a new sense of duty beyond just surviving to the next day. You will do this, or you will die."

I am pulled to my feet by two more women who are also clad in demon masks, grotesque mouths with each one being contorted in various ways, but theirs are less ornate without a curling tongue or the horns. My bonds are cut off and I take a big breath of air once my mouth is free of the hand covering it.

"Do we start right now?" I ask, but all I get is a strong punch to the side of my jaw. A pair of hands keeps me from falling over; I feel the blood flowing from my bottom lip. Which will undoubtedly begin to change colors soon, as I can feel it swelling already.

"Speak when told to speak," My attacker barks at me.

The woman in charge raises a hand, which causes the two women beside me to relax.

"Your training starts in the morning. First, we must test your fortitude and pain threshold; it will not be pleasant. Bring her to her quarters and get her face healed," Says the woman who is more than obviously their leader.

"As you say, Listener," The two women reply.

Walking between the two women, we exit into an ancient-looking stone hallway with several old, but well maintained, wooden doors lining both walls. Enough of them that I think, these are the personal rooms, and my suspicions are confirmed when I am taken to the very back of the hall, to an older, less-maintained door. Once open, I spot a bed made from the same stone that this place is carved of; a mattress of hay covers it along with a single flat pillow and a thin blanket. A bucket in the far corner, for relieving oneself, with armor and a weapon all stand along the same wall—with only enough room for one person, and that is it.

"This will be your home, and this shall be your room from here on out," Says the woman to my right. "I will be back with some salves in a moment."

A grunt issues forth from the other woman, saying, "Don't wander about just yet. You can go to meals, clean yourself, and go to your training." She points into the room, and I don't disobey. "Otherwise you stay in your room."

Once inside my room, she closes the door with a loud thud, and the latch audibly clicks into place. For a moment, the thought of being a prisoner goes through my head. Sitting upon the mattress, I hold my jaw as I try to block out the pain. The Sisterhood of Loira, everyone knows of them. If they had a contract for your life, you might as well just dig your own grave and lie in it, because they are the finest spies, assassins, fighters, and murderers. So, despite the pain, I grin, at least as much as I can, because if I survive this then I am set with nary a worry on my mind.

I'm lying on the hay-filled mattress when a soft rap comes from the other side of my door. However, they don't wait, and open the portal revealing an elven woman who stands around my height. It doesn't take long for me to recognize her as the woman who promised to bring me the salve. Brown-colored hair down to just below the base of her neck with a single thin braid on each side of her face, both tied with short pieces of leather. Long elven ears with rings of various precious metals pierced through them and almond-shaped eyes of a verdant jade green.

The woman doesn't say anything as I sit up in bed; she sits down beside me offering her right hand, "Emy."

We clasp forearms with a quick shake, and I reply, "Tegan, but I am sure you know that."

"Of course: I was the person who left the letters for you," She replies, opening a squat gray jar. A foul smell causes her to wrinkle her nose. "Never liked this stuff. It is going to sting but it will be like nothing happened in a few hours."

I don't say anything before she begins to apply it across my lip and jaw; a hiss involuntarily comes out of my throat at the contact, but I don't move - just enduring the stinging pain, as it is quick to dissipate after it is applied.

"Not too bad," Emy says.

"So why me?" I ask.

The elf shrugs before standing up, saying, "I didn't scout your talent. I am not exactly sure who did. My job was to lead you to the ruins. Then I led the group that recovered you in said ruins."

"Well thanks for not letting me die out there, I guess."

A lopsided grin comes across her delicate features, chuckling before she says, "We clear out the ruins every month, it is a good way to keep the youngsters sharp. So, you were in no real danger there. You connected with Loira there, no?"

"I think so. Something was in my mind, and it hurt like it was trying to control me," I reply.

She nods with a knowing expression, a sigh escapes her lips before she replies, "It is Loira making you one of hers. To serve her in this life and the next regardless if we want to. If you try to leave now, we'd be forced to kill you."

"No choice?"

"None."

"Could be a lot worse."

Emy lets out a short chuckle whilst walking towards the door. She looks at me over her shoulder, saying, "See how you feel tomorrow afternoon. The door isn't locked, but you know what you have to do, don't you?"

I nod.

"Good," With that she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Being left to my own thoughts is never a good thing: all my mind wants to do is imagine what horrible thing lies in store for me, tomorrow. Doubting that they will kill me, but just the thought is enough while here, alone. The sound of muffled voices, fighting, and the general noises one would expect from a large group of murderous, shady woman carries into my room. Though, after some time, it dies down until the sound of heavy wood scraping on stone, fills the air. A large bell begins to sound and echoes throughout the area.

"Tegan!" The woman who punched me has a distinctive voice, even from the other side of the door. "Get your meal and get back here."

Getting off the bed, I open the door to find myself alone at the end of a long hallway. The sounds of people eating and enjoying themselves come from the opposite end. Feeling like an outsider, as if everyone is staring at me, I enter a large hall that is obviously where most of the day's activities are centered. Several training dummies lay on the west wall-stabbed, arrows still lodged in some, and one is half-charred. In the center of the hall is a large, wooden, platform suspended by four thick mithril chains - their surfaces gleaming in the light of the uncountable number of lit braziers around the area. Several rope ladders dangle off the sides allowing an intrepid soul to stand upon the unsteady surface.

Several long tables, seating around a hundred sisters has me in disbelief that so many can fit and live down here. Several large cauldrons filled with the same stew bubble off to the side where women with wooden bowls grab their fill; dozens of loaves of bread with chunks ripped off and slices cut out, a large basket of frozen snowberries and some random raw and clean vegetables.

When I step up in line, it is behind a rather short woman with a dual crossbow strapped at her hip, and a thigh-quiver full of bolts on the other side. Her hair is bright orange and pulled up in a short topknot. She glances at me but says nothing. I follow until I am in front of the cauldrons, which a delicious smell comes from. I pour out a ladle full of stew into a wooden bowl I am handed, I rip a chunk of bread, and tuck a handful of berries inside the bread itself before scurrying off back to my room like a scalded dog. At least I will be alone and comfortable there; as I know I do not belong with these women right now.

After I eat everything, a woman in black armor, a new sister by the look of her, enters and takes my bowl before offering me a pitcher of water and a wooden cup. She leaves, and I lie back on the bed with lack of a better thing to do now.

Sleep comes easy as exhaustion and boredom overtake me. Dark dreams invade my mind, as a faint whisper seems to draw at the edges of my hearing: motionless scenes of violence and gore, a man in bed with a dagger stabbed into his throat staining the bedding around him. Another of a woman with three arrows in her back, face down in the dirt with blood soaking the ground. Every detail burns into my brain as each scene begins to replay itself backwards, all the way until the moment that the killer got in position to finish off their victims. Each one is a woman, dressed in the same armor of the Sisters, and each one brutally effective in what they do.

My eyes shoot open as the sound of the door slamming against the wall startles me. Several Sisters enter the room clad in their armor and demon masks. Before I can even get up, I am taken from my bed and carried out of the room. Despite how much I struggle, their grips are firm; I am going only where they wish me to go. I don't say anything, no one does, but I know my training to be a Sister will begin soon, and I am not sure if I really want to know what is going to happen.

I am led into the large hall where every third brazier is lit, lending to long shadows cast by the flickering flames. The same woman in the ornate demon mask, the obvious leader, stands beside a wooden pole stained with blood. Several manacles are chained to the pillar, and I can feel my expression dropping just looking at the thing. Off from the main area of the hall, it is easily hidden in an alcove out from view of most of the large room.

I am stripped and bound to the wooden pole by the iron manacles and chains. Feeling helpless and exposed I keep my head up and any emotions off my face. The ten women, who brought me here, stand in a semi-circle as a younger Sister brings several wooden quarterstaffs to the group.

"Us, servants of Loira, never break - regardless of the pain or hardships within our path. If you somehow fail and get caught you will not divulge any secrets while under pain. If your target fights back and you get hurt, you cannot stop simply because it is too painful for you to tolerate. You must finish the task no matter what, and pain can never be a hindrance! Our Lady may well decide to administer her own pain if she so desires, but you cannot show weakness no matter the cost. We are never broken."

The woman in charge turns to face me and the same younger sister from before hands the woman an intimidating whip. I let out a whimper involuntarily, knowing right in that moment the mistake I made. She unrolls the whip before flicking it with expert precision across the full width of my stomach. Sharp, burning pain causes another sound to escape my throat; another lash is what I get across my chest. Biting my bottom lip until it bleeds is the only reason I don't make a sound or move after that last one ripped open my left breast.

"Good," She says, handing the whip off to the younger sister who scurries away. "You will not die today, and you will be healed within the best of the ability of our trained alchemists. So, you will scar but you will not be permanently hurt. Can you withstand five minutes without making a single sound or a sign of weakness? Ready yourselves, Sisters!"

"Yes, Listener!" The ten women reply in tandem.

It is the longest five minutes of my life as every part of me is hit hard enough to hurt, but I can tell that they don't break anything. Pain encapsulates every part of me, and it is all I can do to just block it all out as I close my eyes. A woman appears in my mind's eye that I've never seen before but seems familiar in an odd way. She smiles at me while raising what appears to be an old forward-curving sword and drives it into her stomach. Instead of a look of pain crossing her features, it is one of joy.

Elation and an almost lustful look as she brings up her right hand, covered in her blood, she brings it up and runs her hand across my face. The sticky blood cools upon my skin, and goosebumps rise in its wake. I watch her pull the blade out of her stomach and drive it up into mine. Not a single ounce of pain enters my mind. Instead, I feel a sudden strength and connection to some power. Something stronger, older, and more foreboding than anything I am used to. What is this?

"Time!" I hear the Listener's voice and I open my eyes.

The Sisters have taken several steps back, and most of their staves are covered in my blood. Pain is all I can feel but I refuse to let it show. To any of the women here, I am more than tough enough for their tests.

She walks towards me, saying, "I thought you passed out, but you were just going somewhere else, weren't you? I bet you were. How do you feel?"

A petulant, childish part of me wants to shout an invocation or some type of curse, insult them and perhaps earn more pain, or their scorn. Instead, I harden my jaw for a moment, an act I am sure she noticed, and I say, "Reborn."

My wounds are gone by the next morning and I am awoken before the rest of the Sisters. Alongside another young woman who gives me a smile as we shake forearms. She was put through her toughness test a day before, but her wounds are taking longer to heal. A hearty, blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter of the city of Iona who I have seen before but never met, as we frequented the Lusty Octopus.

We don't get more than a couple words before the three sisters with us call for a silence, and we are led into the large hall where several older human and elven Sisters, long past their fighting prime but still very useful, are cooking a breakfast of a large hash of potatoes, eggs, and what appears to be snow rabbit. While two others pull out loaves of bread and pastries from a stone kiln that has a chimney leading up into the ceiling, aprons cover their clothes and I can't help but get a gently matron feeling from them, even if I know they could kill me in ways I never would conceive of.

"Those are the most respected sisters," Emy explains as we walk towards a large arched door, directly across from the opening of the hall that leads to the dorms. "They have survived every single contract they have had. So, in respect, they are retired and treated as living paragons of Loira. In return, they serve us Sisters in our duty to Loira. Do not fool yourself. They are not to be trifled with, even now."

Through the arched door, lies a short hallway that ends in a t-shaped intersection. A door flanks us to the left and in front of us, but those aren't what we are interested in. Taking a right, we are led to a door at the very end of the hall, a wooden door bounded with old iron that has begun to rust. One of the silent Sisters pulls open the door to reveal a small room with a podium and several bookcases with old books and scrolls.

"This is where the two of you will come every day to study on the Five Tenets, the history of our order, and everything we know of Loira. You will learn the anatomy of both humans and elves, and how to kill them most effectively. Poisons will be discussed, and we will find out if either one of you has some type of special skill, beyond what got you landed here. At least past the martial pursuits," Emy walks up to the podium.

The other two Sisters close the door behind us, and direct us to sit on one of the benches positioned in front of the senior Sister, where she lectures us for hours about the Five Tenets of the Sisterhood, that every Sister must live by Loyalty to Loira and the Listener, to our death, and then beyond. Dedication to improve yourself to the very best weapon we can be and commitment to complete the contract as it is ordered no matter what. Silence is crucial, though some contracts require public killing, it always pays to keep your mouth shut. That trust is only given to your fellow Sisters, the Listener, and Loira, and that is it.

By the end of the first class the two of us are assigned a mentor-the two sisters who walked with us-and I end up with an experienced Sister named Selanisrad: specialist in small blades, breaking and entering, as well as being unseen. The redhead is just barely taller than me, the scars of fights mar her elven features, and hazelnut brown eyes shaped like almonds, as most elves tend to have.

"You need something to eat and then we can talk about your training," The musical lilt to her voice causes me to smile. "It is going to be tough, but, when done, you will be able to take contracts. You will be able to kill someone as easy as taking a breath. You will be able to withstand the harshest punishment and endure until the contract is complete. It is going to be an intense time. You got it?"

"Yeah," I reply.

"Good."


	7. Chapter 7

Year 3234, Salcost 1st

One Thousand Seventy-Eight Years Before Present

Thirteen years ago, I was chosen as The Bard of Jastiv, and was praised as the next great storyteller; taken to the Castle of Memories where, I spent ten years in an intense regiment of instrument practice. Including how to properly write a memory scroll to my patron god's exacting demands: when is the right time to influence, and when is the right time to be just a silent observer of the world. Every moment was a learning experience: the time went by quicker than I would ever have imagined. At the end of it all Jastiv informed me that our contact would be sporadic; that my writings would automatically be sent to him as soon as a story was finished.

"How will I know when a story is done?" I asked before leaving.

"The scroll will disappear," His voice was all that remained, as I found myself in Dhent.

After a festival to celebrate my return, I was immediately commissioned by High Queen Myria IV's cousin, Countess Aeres, to put on a performance for her upcoming wedding-a show that made my reputation in the entire kingdom. I became the talk of the nobles: invited to every castle, keep, and manor that the gentry seem to have a never-ending supply of. Living well without spending a single sovereign over the next two years.

Harel is a small but extremely rich city thanks to it being the only source of mithril and mithglin in all Valsen. The precious and utilitarian magical metals are used in both jewelry and ornamentation to armor and weaponry. The families are old here-as is the money and traditions, so when I was invited to put on a performance that tells of Prince Galdwen who liberated them from their longtime rivals of Oudergem hundreds of years ago, I will say that I was a little nervous to say the least, as nobles' tensions are at an all-time high.

A small, but richly decorated theater, that doubles as a tomb and mausoleum, as the Harelan's have several odd beliefs concerning their dead, is the venue. Despite this, I am more than happy to perform, as that is what I am to my very core: a performer. Everything is banded with the silvery-blue mithril and blue-specked mithglin: the distinctive high and wide arches keeping the thick ancient stone up, bas-reliefs of various local heroes and legends-of which there are two dozen at least.

All the local noble families attend; filling the stone benches covered with velvet-covered purple pillows. Dressed in their finest outfits, along with their most expensive accessories, with most men sporting gem-studded, mithril-capped canes as the women wear ridiculously ornate hair ornamentation, most of them ending up having to sit in the back so everyone can get a good view of the stage.

There's a loud slam, followed by yelling from behind the large wooden doors, beyond the seating. Muffled noises of fighting: metal upon metal as people scream for their lives can be heard. The door is slammed open as a contingent of soldiers in the familiar, Raven clasping a short sword in its claw, heraldry of the Duke of Oudergem's men, filter in as housecarls intercept them futilely. Which, after a short skirmish each one is killed in a brutal display. The nobles run towards the stage, but most of them are too slow, as several men with crossbows run into the room. I look towards the backstage, but the same sounds of slaughter come from within: the few stagehands, porters, and playwrights meeting their end in an unceremonious display of inhuman violence.

Nobles, even the Duke's own cousin, are cut down like wheat by the scythe. Shot with bolts before they are killed–-men, women, and children alike. Soldiers come from the backstage area where I deflect a sword with my mandolin before crashing it over the man's head, sending him down to the stone stage. Pulling out my rapier in one quick motion, I deflect another blade before driving the diamond-tipped sword into my adversary's chest, piercing through the ringed links of his chain mail.

"The Bard doesn't die!" Comes out a commanding voice through the brutality that has slowed to a crawl.

Several soldiers, more than I could ever hope to fight, take my sword and drag me by both arms off the stage. Passing bodies missing heads, limbs, with swords and daggers stuck into their bodies, crossbow bolts in the backs of ladies-in-waiting. With the few survivors being dragged up on stage, past me as they sob, begging for their lives, and shouting out curses and invocations. Looking over my shoulder, I watch in abject horror as they are forced to their knees, before a quick sword slash decapitates them.

"The Duke wants to see her personally, and unharmed! Now!"

I am dragged out of the building and my wrists are bound with a leather strap, tied in an unyielding knot. Duke of Oudergem's men and Baron of Harel's men fight in open battle. The Duke's men have the advantage of surprise and are pushing into what will undoubtedly become a rout for the defenders of Harel. Hoisted onto the back of a horse with a rider already waiting, the soldier spurs the steed and it sprints through the battle. Men of both sides kill each other in a vicious, intense fight, with one side fighting with everything they have in defense of their home. Whilst the other uses a level of vile, grotesque barbarism, that people forget what war truly is, and not the honorable battles played out in epics.

An intense pain shoots through my left arm as an arrow strikes me directly in the bicep. I cry out against the back of a man that I've never met before, but the pain seems to fade as my mind focuses elsewhere. We sprint through the city and out into the hilly countryside, past a group of dismounted cavalry men fighting a small group of the Duke's men; but they can't mount quick enough to catch us. I am not sure if I would be safer in their hands anyways, as they are clearly losing.

Clutching the arrow wound helps to slow the bleeding but not my mental state, as it retains the fatigue of the events that happened so quick in front of my eyes. Sleep threatens while we make it into the thick forests separating Harel and Oudergem, and once we cross over the border the horse is slowed to a stop.

"We need to fix that," The middle-aged man grunts, getting off the horse.

Helping me down, I am placed upon the cold earth and I watch the man pull out a flask. An astringent smell fills the air around us.

"This is going to hurt," He informs me, as a strong hand holds me down.

Watching him while he pours a clear liquid onto my wound causes a crimson foam to bubble up, an intense pain forces me to close my eyes, as I fight losing my consciousness from the shock. It seems to ebb for a moment before another wave of pain courses through me and I feel the arrow being yanked out of my flesh. Then, the stinging pain returns as I feel the cold liquid poured back on my arm. My breath shortens as I fight through the pain. Closing my eyes and trying to pretend that I am anywhere but here fails, yet, after several moments it has already begun to fade away.

"It didn't go in that deep. Your flesh will be healed, and the pain will be gone soon. You got lucky, or I guess unlucky," The soldier says as he helps me up to my feet. "Up you go, got to get you back on the horse."

By the time Castle Ustengov comes into view, I can't help but see the beauty of the fortification and its place upon the ancient giant boulder that has fallen into a ravine not quite wide enough for it, allowing the castle to rise out of it with an almost unnatural stability through innovative and cutting-edge engineering techniques. Making the castle only accessible from one side by any sizable force with rumored, and expected, escape tunnels through the rock leading down to the caves and caverns within the mountains.

"Open the gate!" A voice yells from atop the battlements.

A large mithglin gate rises up as the whirling sound of gears pulls several chains. After many minutes, the large wooden gate lowers across the ravine, separating the castle and the giant rock to the actual mountain. The horse trots over the gate, and as we come into the courtyard, a couple stable boys grab the horse's reins.

"The Duke is waiting for you," Informs an old veteran housecarl, clad in plated armor with a fur cloak covering him. He offers a hand to me in a gesture to help me down.

Looking at the man for a moment, I slide off the horse and straighten out my outfit. The man lowers his hand, and I raise an eyebrow.

"Well I would be amiss to decline such a polite invitation," My voice is as cold, hard as the mountains and rocks surrounding us.

He gestures for me to follow and I do so in the same brisk pace the man keeps. A chill wind gusts, and threatens to push me over, and perhaps I would if I was a delicate flower. Several small squads of soldiers are put through training, despite it all. Several archers stand upon the battlements, and I can't help but wonder how hard it is for them to hit anything in this brutal environment.

Into the large keep, and through the royally decorated foyer, I am led to the great hall. Dark wooden floors, covered in a burgundy rug, lead up to the throne from where the Duke would sit. The coat-of-arms of Oudergem is carved into the back of the large chair. Several shields cover the walls with the same insignia upon them, along with a couple giant bear and boar heads. Two guards dressed in a standard kit flank me as I enter the room.

"The Bard," A commanding, almost inherently regal sounding voice comes from behind the throne. A middle-aged man dressed in the finest of silks, with a heavy velvet cloak draped on his shoulders, jewelry covering his hands, his expression reading as if he is the master of the universe. Within these walls, he is the closest thing to it.

"Duke of Oudergem," I reply.

"It has been some time since we last met," He says taking several steps towards me before heading to his throne. Sitting upon the burgundy-colored pillow, he crosses his legs and folds his hands within his lap. The man's features are almost as dignified as he acts: with sharp, piercing grey eyes that bore directly into my being. His graying beard stands out against the dark brown hair on his head, both are neatly trimmed short. He is clad in a silk shirt that is ruffled at the cuffs, along with a pair of matching pants, and I can't help but feel that he looks the part of what he plays and does it well. "You are my guest: please make yourself comfortable. Geir, get her a chair and something to drink."

"Yes, sire," The man replies, before heading through a door on the far side of the room.

Looking around me, I notice the marble columns supporting the ceiling and the weight of everything above it. Carved by talented-hands, the tops and bottoms showing various scenes from what appears to be the history of the ancient kingdom this city was once capital of.

After a moment, several servants come out, bearing a chair and two carafes of a deep red wine. The chair is placed off to the side of the throne, facing slightly towards it. Once I sit down, I am handed a carafe as well as a wooden cup. I watch the Duke have his wine poured into a mithril goblet, gilded with delicate gold, silver, and platinum metals.

The wine is strong, fruity, with hints of a cinnamon undertone that masks the alcohol quite well, as I find myself downing most of my cup in one drink. Which causes The Duke to chuckle for a moment of time.

"Don't be nervous."

"Pardon my manners, but I would be lying if I said tonight's events didn't leave me a…bit unnerved, my lord," I reply.

He lets out a sigh, and takes a long drink from his goblet, before the Duke says, "I shall be quite honest as well. Tonight's events unnerve me likewise, but it had to be done. They were plotting against their rightful Queen and had to be eliminated. I am just happy you survived. Most soldiers are…low born and lose themselves in their blood rage."

I finish my cup of wine and am well into my second cup before he continues, "You are quite valuable. Do you know that?"

"I would honestly doubt I am worth much in anything outside of performing," I say, not even close to convinced of his sincerity in all things.

"Don't be naive. You have the power of influence. The common people love you, as do most nobles. The most famous and loved woman in all the kingdom, even more so than the Queen," I grip my cup tighter at his words. "You are a loyal subject to your Queen, are you not?"

Without hesitation, I reply, "Of course, my lord. I was born and raised a loyal subject. My mother was a great admirer of your father. I am too young to remember him so well, but the stories are already legends."

"They are, aren't they?" He replies, finishing his goblet of wine. A servant scurries over to refill it. "That is why I brought you here. Stories influence people's thoughts. They can turn tyrants into heroes, and mere wars and political rivalries into epic legends, that define an entire culture. Power of stories-the power you wield-are beyond measure. You know this, as you spent so much time with Jastiv. How many stories, legends, epics, tales, and poems did you read about this kingdom? How about the histories of the multitudes of kingdoms that came before this great one?"

"I hate to go off on a tangent, but it leads up to my point. I want to commission you for a story-one concerning the history of my family. Something I can unveil to Dhent come the next season. You'll have access to the libraries here or anywhere else within my blood relation."

I look down at my cup, for a moment, stalling the man. After some time, I look back at him and say, "You didn't have to kill an entire theater full of people to ask me for a commission."

"They were enemies to the crown, as are their subjects!" He stands up his voice booming. "All of that rabble is lucky that I deemed their leaders to die and not them! You should get used to the lives of those not worth living being cut short. Count yourself lucky that you are deemed worth living, despite your mouth. This is my home, and you are under my roof. You will not disrespect my decisions again. Otherwise, we can find a better use for you! By week's end, I want a verse done. While working on my story, you will be my guest with all the benefits that incurs. Geir, take her to her room."

"As you say, sire," The loyal servant replies, walking up to my side. "Milady, if you please."

Placing my cup down upon the floor, I stand up.

"Good night, milord," I say in as nice a tone as I can force out without sounding farcical.

He says nothing as I am led from the great hall, and through a series of hallways that lead towards, and up, the northeast tower. We take a spiral staircase, illuminated with braziers, filled with coal, and topped with some type of herb, as a pleasant smell fills the castle. Servants, even at this late an hour, scurry back and forth like scared mice.

Once at the top, my escort finally speaks, "This is the guest room reserved for the liege's most respected visitors. Use the servants as you please. I shall leave you to it, milady." He tips the pinched hat upon his head, before leaving.

I watch him walk down the stairs for a moment before I turn my gaze to the door, carved with the same coat-of-arms plastered everywhere else, within the keep. Opening the door, I am taken aback at the room fit for a king. The finest silks, in the rarest of purples, draped as a canopy, over the top of an ebony four-post bed. Each post is carved with the creatures that are endemic to this area–-the great stag, horn tail wyverns, and various imps and faeries. A matching armoire with clawed feet and an open velvet-lined jewelry box, as if I am some lady-of-the-court, who drapes myself in jewels and perfumes to the point that no one can see past that. Set beside that are a gold-framed mirror and a marble bowl within a wooden stand. There is a porcelain pitcher of water set upon the ledge.

But what interests me the most is the large desk with parchment, quills, sharpening knife, and a couple of inkwells specifically prepared for me, I would assume. Removing my satchel from around my torso, I set it down beside the desk and grab a fresh piece of parchment. Inhaling the musky smell causes me to relax a little at the familiarity. Sitting down upon the overstuffed chair, I grab the quill blessed upon me by Jastiv and I set out to chronicle the events of the evening.

Tonight, as it were, has just been the culmination of building tensions between two rival houses, but what does it really signify? War is just around the corner and Jastiv taught me how to know when it is coming. The Duke has been making strides to solidify his claim to the throne of the entire kingdom with the nobles, but the people fully support the High Queen. His little charade at retrieving me is just his way to sway the people. Couldn't have been more transparent if he was made of glass.

The house of Oudergem is one of the oldest, proudest, and has claimed the throne for the past four hundred years. Their reputation for ruthless tactics on the battlefield and their shrewd traders have brought them fame, fortune, power, and influence. If the Duke goes for the throne, it will destroy the house, and more than likely, drive the entire kingdom into chaos.

Eight months ago, The Duke laid siege to house of Bertelsen's stronghold of Vejia. This was the oldest family with a traceable bloodline back to the original six kingdoms formed before there was even written records. The few ancient surviving scrolls show them having an ancestor. He sacked the town, and the Queen allowed it, and the family could leave before he burned it to the ground. Unlike now, one of the Queen's strongest supporters and allies massacred. No wonder he now needs me to spin him such a tale, as half of the nobility are going to be out for his blood, as soon as word spreads. Which I suspect, he is trying to delay if he possibly can.

As the sun's rays create a beautiful display across the ravine, and the ice-capped mountains just a stone's throw away from my window, is quite breathtaking. A cooling breeze causes the room to drop in temperature as the small fire from last night has long since died. Loud, banging knocks comes from the other side of the door.

"Milady, the Duke wishes to take his breakfast with you," The man's gruff voice has an odd tone to it.

"Does he?" I ask.

He cocks an eyebrow, saying, "Have you started composing the story?"

"Blunt and direct to the point, housecarl," I say to the man. "But, no, I have not. I do not intend to and I wish to tell The Duke this and then leave. I am not here for your propaganda." My sense of confidence and boldness reach an apex as I finish.

"Very well," Is all the man says.

Within moments, soldiers appear at both of my sides, clearly ready for this, and take hold of me, to the point I'd be a fool to try and resist. Not a single word of protest exits my mouth as I am dragged down the stairs and out of the tower. Through a hall that borders the kitchen, mess hall, and barracks for the soldiers, their inane chatter filling the air. The clicking of a heavy lock comes from a large barred gate that leads down into the bowels of the stone below.

Shadows dance among the low light from the single torch that illuminates the area-shimmering rays off the wall catches my eye, as I try to not think about the dull pain from their rough hands gripping me tight. Anguished screams echo off the walls, as some poor soul suffers at the hands of the sadistic torturers, inquisitors, and interrogators down below; the same fate that I am about to face.

I close my eyes as the smell of excrement; piss, blood, and decay fill the unpleasant atmosphere that lingers over these dungeons. Squeaking of rusty hinges forces my eyes open out of curiosity, a cage barely big enough for me to stand in lies in front of me, and with one forceful push, I am thrown into the cage. Catching myself against the bars, just before my face is brought up close-and-personal to them.

"Be quiet, don't try to escape, or you will suffer," A burly man, with a hood over his face, says. He accentuates his point with his thumb, gesturing towards the poor soul behind him.

The poor man's arms are tied together behind his back and he is lifted at least twenty feet into the air by a chain attached to the ropes binding him. Hair disheveled, and his beard overgrown, I can't imagine how long he might have been here. The man's shoulders are twisted showing the bone and ligament below it, as if the hands of a master, sadistic artisan, shaped a grotesque, marble statue.

I don't have any concept of time here, as I sit with my knees against my chest. Leaning against the cold iron bars. I listen to the various interrogations, questionings, conversations, and torture going on around me. A pit of suffering, despair, and death, and here I sit in the middle of a cage waiting my turn. Most of these men are peasants who didn't have enough sovereigns or goods to pay tribute to the Duke, or soldiers in the burgeoning civil war that will tear this country apart. Not that it matters to me at this moment.

I'm given a bowl of gruel and a piece of stale bread, as I assume night time has come by the lack of light streaming through the grates. The torches being the only source of illumination in this dark place, tears fight at the edge of my eyes as the night wears long. The prisoner in the cell beside me is sobbing quietly as I notice the young lad missing the tips of his fingers, causing me to bury my face in my hands, wanting to be anywhere but here.

"Bard," The same burly man from before comes up to the cage's door. "The Duke wants to know if you have changed your mind?"

Looking up at him, I say, "I would rather die. Our stories, our histories are not for one man's ambitions. Do with me, as you will. Matters not to me." I'll be damned if I give myself up to them.

"I was really hoping you would say that. The Duke doesn't care what happens to you now, you know? I can do whatever I want," The hideous man is barely a half-step away from me as he unsheathes a pair of shears. "First I am going to make sure you can never write again. After that, I am going to rip that tongue out, and I will keep you down here as my personal slave. As it amuses me to no end that you won't be able to write or talk at all."

I take several steps back as he opens and closes the shears, in a way to intimidate me, and I must say it works, as I find myself backed against the metal bars. The sounds of running feet is followed by the appearance of two men dressed as guards and a woman clad in black metal-reinforced leather armor. All three of them are armed to the teeth, and before the jailer can react, the woman stabs her dramatically-pointed narrow short sword through the man's chest with such force I can see the tip of the blade pierce through his front. In an instant, she pulls it out and slashes his throat in one deft movement from behind.

"Come with us, now!" the older of the two men commands.

"We have three, maybe four, minutes before we are swarmed. Come on," The woman's lyrical lilt to her voice affirms my suspicions of their elven heritage.

Nodding, I am led over to the chest, where they stored my possessions, and then follow the trio towards an old crack in the wall, barely big enough for one person to fit in, if they take small breaths of the musty air. After several minutes of this, I drop down into a dark tunnel where the ceiling is just a hair's breadth from the top of my skull. The female fighter picks up a solitary torch, and she leads us down the tunnel. It twists and turns, all the while heading downwards through old carved stairs, and almost impossibly steep ramps.

"We have four horses, so we are just going to follow the river," The man informs me. "My bodyguard is Sten, and I am Meine, fifth son of Baron Arnoud of-"

"Meerbeke and Rivaln," I interrupt, "He threw me a feast the day I returned to the lands, it was fortuitous that he was in Dhent at the time. You and your brothers were absent, unfortunately."

"Aye, my apologies, we were most eager to meet you, but the bandits needed culling and my brothers always seek more honor-as do I, which is why we are here: to save you from the Duke's influence."

"Who are you?" I direct towards the woman, as she scurries ahead of us.

"The reason you are out of there," She replies, cold and indifferent.

Freezing air rushes in as we get close to the exit, and as expected, the light of the moon illuminates the mouth of this old cave. Once into the dim moon's light, I spot the four horses tied off to an old stump within the forest glade, which the cave opens out to. Each horse has a small pack filled with gear but is largely unequipped with tack. Three guards lie dead off to the side.

"Just keep up with us. We'll explain more once we are safe," The woman says as she mounts a brown-spotted white horse.

The three of them sprint off and I make sure to keep up their pace, happy to put the castle, and dungeon, behind me.


	8. Chapter 8

Year 3234, Salcost 2nd

One Thousand Seventy-Eight Years Before Present

The river widens as the forest thins out, and the water moves from a gentle current to a rather fast set of rapids. It splashes up high enough to hit my trousers as I stand several feet away from the edge of the water. My three rescuers have walked several yards away from me as they speak in hushed tones, debating what our next move is going to be.

Looking down into the rapids, I can't help but imagine how cold the water would be if I was fully submerged in it. Most certainly a better fate than how I would have ended up if it wasn't for them over there. Despite the current, I spot fish in the water swimming against it, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to do, some jumping and clearing the rocks and the particularly strong currents in certain areas.

Rain has begun to fall in a swift, steady manner. Already soaking me to the bone, yet I have a feeling this is just a prelude of what is to come. Not too far from us is, no doubt a hunting party, and as I stand here staring into the water, they are getting closer.  
Turning to look at the three, I say, “We have to ford across if we are heading out of here. Arguing about the best place to do that is only going to get us caught and killed. We ford here, and hope the horses, and us, survive.”

“She's right,” Meine agrees, “Come on. We might die crossing the river but if we stay here, we will most certainly die.”

Without hesitation, I march up to my horse and grab it by the pack strapped around its body. Guiding the beast toward the river, I take a tentative step into the icy waters. The freezing liquid numbs my feet in almost an instant. With each step, the water gets higher and higher until the cold liquid is up to my waist. The current threatens to wash me away, and the fact that the horse is holding strong is the only reason I stay on my feet.

Once I cross over the halfway point, I am quick to scramble up the other bank and sit down onto the solid, wet ground to catch my breath, as I watch the others successfully cross. Standing up, I mount the horse as the others get on theirs. Afraid that we have given up too much time as it is, the four of us gallop towards the imposing Dunkerwald on the horizon.

An ancient forest that was once home to a vicious tribe of trolls that were driven out generations ago, now it is more than likely home to bandits, mercenaries, and miscreants, than to monsters. It is the quickest, most direct route, even if it can be potentially dangerous. Though, not even close to as dangerous as trying to go around the slower way.

The sun is long gone by the time we come upon a copse of trees with an abandoned hunter's cabin; one that hasn't seen use in my lifetime, it appears. Rotting tools are lying around the outside of the building, moss covers the north side, and a giant spider web covers the front door. Inside is covered in dust with the only footprints being small raccoons and other types of vermin, no sign of anything larger. A fireplace sits against the far wall, and the furniture has decayed away to a mess of leather, nails, and straw. Whatever was here is long gone, now the only remains are covered in moss, bugs, and dust.

“Well at least it seems like no one comes through here,” The bodyguard, Sten, mentions. The first words I hear come out of his mouth.

The woman closes the door behind us and bars it with a piece of wood that has stood up to the tests of time. “We must get comfortable and rest. They won't find us tonight as long as we don't use the fireplace.”

“Agreed, one of us will always be on watch. I'll take first,” Meine offers.

I walk over by the old fireplace and sit cross-legged upon the floor. Pulling out my scrolls from my satchel, I am astonished to find that every single piece of parchment is still in good condition. Not even moist, like everything else inside of the bag. A part of me wonders how they didn’t get soaked through, but another side of me just doesn’t care enough to ask.

Pulling out the quill and the scroll I was working on a couple nights ago, I begin writing down all the events that have happened to me thus far, and about the group I am with. Each person with me, like an actor on a stage playing their parts, a strict role they must all adhere to. The large, quiet Sten stands beside his Lord, as they both keep watch through the windows. The female fighter sits directly across from me in the small cabin, cutting pieces off some dried trail meat, quietly chewing as her eyes scan the entire room.

“What a shit hole,” She comments with a languid stretch of her arms. “My name is Nemira, and I am from the Sisterhood of Loira. Heard of them on this side of the ocean?”

I nod, saying, “Your order tends to stay over there. Only coming here if it is a big job. Not too unusual to hear of your kind here, though. So, are you here for me?”

“Not to kill you. If that was so, I'd slaughtered that entire castle before finding you and ending your existence in one of the many ways I know how. No, no, no I came on orders to make sure you do not die. I am your highly trained, morally ambiguous bodyguard. Though I was surprised we got in so silently, sneaking isn’t my strong suit. Tend to be the type brought in when subtlety isn’t needed or even desired.”

“Well I hope you succeed in your duties,” I say not looking up from my scroll as I speak. “Otherwise, my head will be decorating someone's gate.”

“More-than-likely the Duke's head will be decorating the Queen’s gate.”

The night is quiet and Nemira insists that I skip watch and just rest for the next day's trip through the forest. I protest, but when I lie down, I am sure I will be thankful to be able to sleep without worrying about what torture may await me the following day. Despite the current situation, it is a lot preferable to the alternative.

“Thank you,” I say to Nemira after she insists I sleep.

“It is just an extra couple of hours, I can stay up.”

“No, I meant for saving me from that man and the torture I was about to be put through,” I lean against the old wooden wall. Running a hand through my hair and say, “You know what he was going to do to me?”

She nods but stays silent for a moment. Turning to look outside into the night, I look at the elf and can't help but find her attractive. Sharp jawline that one would think could cut their fingers upon. Delicate features, but the scars from years of work dot her features. An unreadable expression crosses her face as if she is deep in thought.

“Yeah, I have seen that a few times before ending the deserving. You are welcome,” She looks over at me before she says, “Aren't you curious why I am here exactly?”

“You said you were my bodyguard.”

“Yes, but who put the job out,” She says pulling out a green leaf from a pouch and places it between her cheek and gums. After a moment, she sighs and continues, “your god, Jastiv, appealed to the Lady of Death, the Dark Mistress, to keep you safe from the machinations of the court life here.”

Pondering the consequences of him asking her for help, I say, “He didn't think I could protect myself?”

“Don't be offended. You are not a killer: you are a performer. I am a weapon. Honed to do only one thing. He knows how bad this is going to end up. I am here to just give a little edge. We all need help sometimes.”

Stepping away from the wall I intend to head to my makeshift bed, but she stops me.

“That's not all. You know of the Lyre of Nirnie that the Duke has? We need to get our hands on it. I am aggrieved to say it, Bard, but we will be seeing that man's hospitality again. Soon. Now head off to rest. The morning comes, and we must make haste before the sun is up.”

“I can't sleep now,” I reply. “When I was grabbed by the Duke’s men I didn’t think and knocked one down with my mandolin. If I hadn’t been stopped, I’d probably have tried to kill him as he wished me to die. So, can I ask you something?”

“How does it feel to kill?” She replies without hesitation.

“Yes, I hope it isn’t odd.”

“You want to know how it is to be a killer? Most people ask if I feel any guilt. Do I feel remorse? You aren't the first person to ask me something like that, Bard. Despite you never asking,” She chews on the leaf slowly, seeming to not want to answer.

After a moment of silence, I say, “I could explain to you how it is to sing in front of a crowd larger than most armies.”

“Sounds horrible.”

I scoff.

“I am not dead inside if you are afraid of me just snapping and killing everybody here. Don't.”

“Well that isn't it at all actually,” I say. “I figured you weren't some uncontrolled beast or some such nonsense. It is just…does it get to you?”

She shrugs, “Do you lose sleep for people like that jailer dying?”

“Never.”

“I don't kill those who don't deserve to die. Loira almost never demands the blood of innocents. For the innocent isn’t what she wants dead, only the deserving. If I said there wasn't a twinge, that would be a lie, but I take solace that a good amount of the time, I find people who need some type of saving. Rescuing them from some horrible person,” She turns her gaze back to the landscape outside. Only streaks of moonlight illuminate the area around them. She says, “Is that a good enough answer?” 

“Not really,” I reply.

“Well you will have to make peace with the answer.”

“I wonder,” I begin after a moment, “How many of our heroes, legends, and humans–-as well as elves-–that we tell stories of. I wonder how many of them felt the same as you. That the justification of death was overall good, an evil that is needed.”

“Perhaps evil is too far.”

“Indeed, perhaps it is, but I meant more that Loira has more of a code of ethics than people give her credit.”

The assassin removes the leaf from her cheek, balls it up and tosses it to the side. She spits onto the floor before kicking dust and dirt on top of it.

“Regardless, we provide a needed service. People need to die sometimes,” She turns away from me and looks outside. Then she says, “Get some rest.”


End file.
